


Let it Fall to Ashes

by ISwearImOkay



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But she's trying to work through them, Depression, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, First time writer, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, HYDRA sucks, Hydra (Marvel), I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I don't think anyone will read this, I got to do backstory sorry, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, I'm bad at hopefully everything but the actual writing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, My First Work in This Fandom, My original character is hopefully likeable, No hate pleaseeee, OFC may have some issues, Pain Train, Panic Attacks, SHIELD may or may not be the good guy, This is purely out of boredom, This will probably be long, Why Did I Write This?, but I'm posting it anyways, but with some changes, give it a shot, kind of a rewrite, mostly - Freeform, she's got a lot on her mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:08:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ISwearImOkay/pseuds/ISwearImOkay
Summary: "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I believe that she’s the biggest threat to national security? That her mere existence means horror, and destruction, and death? Is that what you want me to say? Is it?""Is it the truth?"-What would happen if you knew the truth? What would happen if you finally figured out the lie? What would happen when you discovered who you are?For Olivia Grey, she's about to find out.-(Huge fic that'll hopefully span through the MCU timeline; mostly OFC-centric, with eventual Steve Rogers\OFC. Be gentle, I've never posted before!)*Updates every one to two weeks*
Relationships: Avengers Team & Original Female Character(s), Clint Barton/Original Female Character(s), Nick Fury/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Phil Coulson/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Tony Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 28





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo, this fic was mainly started because the idea wouldn't get out of my head. I don't know if anyone will read this or not, but hey, whatever, hope you like it if you do. The first few chapters will probably be backstory, and they will get longer as they go along after I get the needed backstory completed. I'm not an experienced writer by any means, and this is the first I've ever posted, so please be nice in your comments (if I get any, lol). Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Without further ado, hope you like it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prelude:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposted because I had format issues, hopefully this fixes them!

Alaska, 1992  
_____

“There is nothing there.”

“There must be,” Adeline insisted, hands clasping the binoculars tightly, betraying her calm demeanor. “Why would Mrs. S lie?”

“Maybe she herself was misinformed, confused,” Hugh mused, rubbing his jaw from their location on the border. They were in Position 4, in the midst of the other groups surrounding the spot. He glanced over at his partner; her eyes still glued to the view ahead of her. Adeline and he had been here for almost seven hours, waiting. For what? He wasn’t sure. Their informant had told them of this place, had told of its weaknesses and the blind spots in its security. Had told them absolutely everything she could about it and the people within. How many there were, what they were.

But, he and the rest of their team had been there for hours upon hours, with nothing alerting or supporting a notion that what Mrs. S had told them was true. That the rumors, the threat, was real. That a new fight was about to begin.

From everything that happened so far this night, the only evidence to anything was that Mrs. S was wrong.

And Hugh almost wanted to believe it that’s But, resting his head against the headrest, he thought with a sigh escaping him, _it’s never that easy._

“No, she’s right,” Adeline rebutted. “Something’s off about this place.”

“How do you know?” Her partner prodded, a teasing strain in his voice at her certainty.

“I just…do,” she shrugged, flicking her eyes over to meet his, finally taking her eyes away from the spot they’d been burning into. The easy confidence in them was evident, and it would’ve been soothing if it wasn’t for the thing that she was certain of. Hugh didn’t want to think of that thing.

Adeline, however, did. She’d been poring over the possibility for weeks now of that rumor being true. That disgusting, vile rumor that had spread among the ranks of her team like the plague in Europe. It had infected everyone’s minds and left them with the stomach-twisting paralysis of fear and anxiety over the thought. Some people over-trained themselves at the gym in an attempt to regain some feeling of control over it, others seemed to lose themselves in the distraction of poisonous worry, affecting their work, their demeanor, their vigil.

Adeline was an outlier though. She’d instead flung herself in the depths of work and study, analyzing every single page of information she could find on this supposed rumor. She’d practically tattooed what she found in history books, from online web-articles, from classified files, and from the living testaments themselves who’d lived and fought against the rumor when it wasn’t just a rumor. When it was reality. And it was from these testimonies that her faith in the rumor strengthened. So much so that there was no doubt in her mind that Mrs. S had been right, that this place was in fact where they were. Where they’d find their next war.

She knew Hugh thought she was delusional, but she just knew. She also knew that he didn’t believe in it like she did, because he didn’t want to. She knew it every time she glanced over and saw the fear in his eyes.

It was in the midst of looking at her partner that her eyes strayed from the spot she and the other agents had trained their binoculars on since dusk. And while doing so, she missed the flicker of heat that was read on the screen. The first heat reading that they’d been able to register. Prior to this the screens had been blank, infuriatingly so.

“Adeline.”

“Hm?”

“ _Adeline_ ,” Hugh exclaimed, pointing to the monitor. “Look.”

“That-that’s a reading! Ohmygod,” Adeline tripped over her words for a minute, a rush of excitement and fear tumbling over her at once. She grabbed the walkie-talkie perched on the console and spoke into it: “Subgroup 12 to Main, do you see what I’m seeing?”

“ _Main to all subgroups: reading seen and verified, initiate phase two_.”

The words were barely finished being spoken before Adeline grappled with her door handle, her bulletproof vest adjusted as she grappled with her field-issued 9mm. She opened her door, spinning around to view her partner, whose posture was rigid in his seat, eyes alert.

“I’ll meet you there, you know what to do,” Adeline smiled, ease rolling off of her, which was exactly what she intended to show to Hugh, who was anything but relaxed.

She couldn’t hesitate any longer. If she wasted anymore time, she may compromise the rest of her team’s mission, and she would never be able to live with herself if someone else’s blood was spilled on her hands.

Adeline turned to go, her heart hammering from the rush of adrenaline, but stopped when she heard him call to her: “Wait!”

She spun around, looking back at him quizzically for a moment. His expression softened, and she realized he wasn’t anxious for his own sake, but for hers. “Be careful out there, alright?”

Adeline felt her lips curve up in a warm smile, her partner’s concern for her making her emotional, impulsive. She felt the pull of the bond between them, forged from hours upon hours of working the field together. A connection not easily formed, and never forgotten.

She gave him a brief nod, her smile twisting into something filled with an uneasy premonition and left before she allowed herself to dwell on the growing what ifs.

She was gone in the blink of an eye.

* * *

Agent #0238 through #0254 moved like a wave across the screen. Director Carter observed the graceful proceedings of her special force legion like a proud mama bird, watching the toils of her youth take flight before her in the most momentous way possible. Sitting in the hub she and her team had secured before arrival at the spot, she barely had glanced at the woodsy charm of the log cabin before setting her attentions back upon her work. It was easy to see why she was so focused; this wasn’t any old mission. And saying that about a task force specifically created to take upon the assignments deemed too dangerous for ordinary divisions of S.H.I.E.L.D. gave all the information needed about just how close the agents on this were to falling off the blade’s edge.

The others with the Director took the work she’d directed upon them with the same icy focus as herself, making sure every last detail of this mission was carried out to perfection. Every agent, from relative rookie teams to the most seasoned of them all, were observed on the monitors and other technological resources secured. They’d been stationed strategically around the spot, a rather demure and inconspicuous building in central Alaska. The building looked similar to a warehouse, much like the other ones in neighboring towns, but the location of the building irked Peggy. Why was a lone building placed in the middle of a stretch of thick wilderness in God-forsaken Alaska of all places? And why did almost no one know of its existence or why it was there in the first place? If it hadn’t been for Mrs. S’s intel, she and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. would most likely have overlooked it themselves.

“Director,” a feminine voice pulled her from her ruminating, and she walked over to a young brunette who was looking at a computer massive amounts of heat readings lighting up the screen. “We’re getting something.”

“When did this first appear?” Peggy asked, her stomach coiling with anxious anticipation.

“Just now, I can’t tell what it is. It doesn’t appear to be…human,” the young agent, whose name she went by was Kate, adjusted her headset, muffled audio heard going through them.

"Who is it?"

“It’s Grant, he’s picking up readings from the heat source,” Kate explained, her voice taking on a hint of something sinister. “The genetic composition of that thing is mutilated, altered. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

“Explain it,” Director Carter commanded.

“Humans have 23 sets of chromosomes that have DNA within them that are encoded by genomes. These genomes have a set nucleic acid sequences that make up the genome and make up our DNA, subsequently. These sequences are the same throughout all humans, with 99.999 percent of each human’s DNA being the same. Genetics between humans are like blueprints and they are repeating.

“But, this…this doesn’t adhere to that. The DNA in this thing is…remarkable. Genetic variation among humans amounts to 0.001 percent being different. This? 20% of its genetics are different from the average human.”

Kate’s voice was trembling with a mix of awe and horror, the biochemistry background coming through her veneer of cool uniformity. Peggy allowed herself a moment to pause and swallow and try to get her racing thoughts in line.

“It’s human? And alive?”

“Grant is picking up a heartrate and it does present much similarity to humans, but I don’t know. With readings like that, the amount of energy coming from it to even allow this deep of a surface analysis, it seems impossible that it’s human, much less alive.”

Before Carter could respond, the ground shook beneath her feat, the Earth seeming as if it was groaning in agony, and everyone in the room was met with a wave of something electric, powerful. The land trembled in terror, and everyone bowed in submission as they were knocked off their feet.

* * *

Adeline had advanced quickly and stealthily, each step deft and precise as she navigated through the Alaskan terrain. The air was cool against her face, thrashes of wind attacking her from the side. A constant chill was granted to everyone who stepped into this place, and she thought with a dash of thankfulness that it was only August. She didn’t want to imagine what the temperatures were like in the dead of winter, a time that when she’d asked the locals about, had resulted in only rue smiles.

She heard feedback in her headset, the one she’d activated shortly after leaving Hugh. A staticky sound echoed through her ears before it sharpened into proper audio: “ _Agent 0041; you’re advancing on the perimeter. State your present analysis._ ”

Sliding through a patch of underbrush that clawed at her uniform, Adeline found a good vantage point to begin her visual report.

“No visible threat thus far. No detectable people or attacking forces. Building is an estimated 15,000 square feet. No windows, building material is unknown. It looks generic. I’m on the East side, advancing to the North to where the heat reading was read. Infrared vision is in the process of engaging.”

She fumbled with the goggles that were proving to be a mix of irritating and clunky. It was fairly new tech, and it had already been modified to be in a form similar to a pair of snow goggles. Adeline knew to be patient as the device adjusted and provided her with the needed information, but she couldn’t help with feeling a bit exposed as she advanced with relative blindness.

“ _You have reached the Northern side, advance with caution, heat reading is becoming stronger and closer to you. Seven agents in total are on this side with you. You are not alone._ ”

The operator’s words did little to ease the growing pit in her stomach, for with the same sense she’d attempted to explain to Hugh in the car, she knew this building’s exterior was a demure disguise at whatever was inside. Each step grew this sense of falling like bait into the hunter’s trap. It didn’t help that her goggles refused to cooperate still.

“Operator, my goggles are malfunctioning. They’ve yet to operate properly, I’m moving blind.”

She was met with the cold chill of radio silence.

A static erupted in her earpiece, and she stilled momentarily in her stalk nearer to the building.

"Operator?"

Nothing. 

_What’s going on? How is it disconnected?_ She thought, feeling as if that gut-feeling was coming eerily true. Had something happened to the operator himself, or was it a tech problem with the signal emanating between her earpiece and the operator’s own receptors? Or had something interfered with the signal itself?

What could possibly be putting off such a strong force to override military-grade technology, not to mention S.H.I.E.L.D. tech?

Adeline spotted a familiar agent around a hundred yards away from her, similarly, seen messing with their own earpiece. It wasn’t just her than; it was the team itself.

A knife’s edge crawled up her spine, a terror and fear so strong it was a physical sensation. She needed to get out of here, away from this place. She had to get her team out. They had to leave _now._

She’d just begun to advance upon the agent in sight when her goggles finally decided to work. Disoriented slightly by the sudden change, she turned her head left to the building’s side and saw a rapidly expanding force of the white. Watching a blank blue canvas morph and be consumed by a wave of a yellow so bright, it was…it was…

_It’s like a sun._

She stayed still stupidly while the thought ran through her head. Her bearings caught up with her a second too late as she finally turned to run. When she thought of it later, she didn’t remember what she was thinking in those moments when she was running for her life. All she thought of was the fear of impending death and how strong her impulse was to refuse to give into it. She remembered the feeling of regret at never-said words, concealed feelings. How small the reasons she never voiced them felt in those moments.

She ran, but she was consumed. She didn’t feel pain.

* * *

Carter woke to the smell of her own blood.

Her head pounded, having hit hard against the floor in her fall. Her body ached entirely, and she felt a specific pain scraped against her right shoulder. When she turned to look at it, she found her shirt stained red.

Her team, her agents, were in a similar state. Some were beginning to arise from the ground, injuries and sounds of discomfort coming from all of them.

“Is everyone alright?” she asked, her throat dry.

Muttered responses, still somehow speckled with the professional echoes of “yes, director” and “yes, ma’am”, replied to her and she let out a sigh of relief.

But their responses only solved one problem. She had a much bigger one to solve; one that revolved around the answer to her question of _what the hell caused that?_

Blinking rapidly to clear her hazy vision, she noticed a small red light blinking from a dash of one of her operator’s set ups. The operator himself was currently in the process of putting himself together again and tending to a bleeding head wound, so she moved to answer it herself. Selecting the audio to play on speaker, as the headset was no where in sight, she listened to the scratchy voice of a familiar agent.

“ _Y-you’re never going to believe what I’m seeing._ ”


	2. Phase 1| The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia begins to tell her story, but why and to who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The parts in italics are a written document within the story, it'll make more sense when you finish the chapter.
> 
> TW: mention of failed abduction

_  
  
The first time I saw it was when I was eight. Aunt Jamie has bought me a new bike, shiny and red, with tassels at the end of each of the handlebars. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen that bike. And having just mastered the skill of bike riding, I’d hopped on the seat with an innocent eagerness only an eight-year-old could possess. Aunt Jamie had told me not to go more than a few blocks away, and that was fine by me, as long as I could flaunt that bike around my neighborhood, grinning like a maniac._

_And, by god, I did. It was glorious, those first few pedals down the sidewalk. I’d soon cut into the edge of the street, as no one was going out anywhere on that sunny Saturday, and I’d glided on the pavement like I was the monarch of Freeman Avenue, the rightful heir, being presented on her two-wheeled chariot. I’d gotten cocky after those first few hundred yards I road, and I decided to cut over to where the big hill was, where all the teenagers’ road their bikes and skateboards and what have you. The hazy sun of noon bit down on my bare legs as I made the climb to the peak of the hill, and I remember yelling out in particular delight as I cruised down the slope._

_But then a little kid rushed out into the street. Directly in my path._

_I hollered at him, frantically trying to swerve out of the way of the little blonde-haired kid, barely four years old. I remember hearing what sounded like an older brother yelling at him, because he knew not to go out into the street. He was going to tell his mom on him._

_At this point, I’d lost control of the bike, the swerve making me lose my balance. The blacktop got closer and closer in view as I toppled sideways into it, the bike following suit. I landed hard on my right wrist, a desperate instinct-driven attempt to lessen the oncoming pain, and my knee and shoulder crashed hard into the rough, black street. I remember biting down on my tongue to keep from screaming. The sting and burn that comes from bike crashes coursed over me, and my wrist throbbed with an acute pain that I later knew was from my bone breaking._

_My pre-adolescent body curled in on itself, and I squeezed the scrapes on my knee with my hands to try and subdue the pain. Gravel was flicked in among the red of the wound, blood dripping from it in gliding streaks along my leg. I squinted against the glare of the sun, glinting ruby light off my bike, and pushed up into a sitting position. I cradled my legs then, rocking back and forth slightly despite my embarrassment. My head was buried in between my knees; maybe if I could squeeze my body small enough, I would drift away in the summer breeze, for anywhere would be better than the hot pavement and sticky blood reality I was in._

_Finally, I looked up, sniffling. I angled my head away from the sun and looked instead at my knees. If I were to salvage some of my childish pride, I must pull myself together._

_That’s where I first saw it._

_Slipping down my pale legs, white despite the hours spent in the sun, was blue. Dark, dark blue. Contrasting so vividly with my skin, it was impossible to not stare at. It reflected the light of the sun, almost had a glittering quality in it, and it dared me to keep looking at it. I rotated my knee, looking at it from a different angle. My curiosity had dulled the angry pain, taking over my brain’s focus._

_My blood morphed into something closer to red when it was looked at differently, gaining back the original scarlet hue when looked at in a different light. But, when I shifted my view again, it was still blue. Still so blatantly blue. Why? I had never seen this before. I’d bled prior to this; cuts and scrapes and yanked loose teeth had all led me to see my own blood. And it had never been anything other than red. Never._

_My lower lip wobbled. I began to shake. My thoughts weren’t coherent; blurred and confused in the state of irrationality and shock I was in. My good arm which propped me up gave out suddenly, thwacking my head against the ground. My breath quickened, my heart racing. I was losing myself. I tried to open my eyes, but the sun was so bright and I can’t I can’t I can’t. I was bleeding, I was terrified, I was..._

_Where was I? When I opened my eyes again, a flash of somewhere else entirely was brought to me. Color seemed to drain out of the image as a girl so pitifully small was surrounded by a group of men in white. Her skinny legs and arms strapped down as two long, sharp needles approached the girl, and she didn’t scream. She wouldn’t scream._

_I screamed. I screamed as the needles pushed against her skin. I screamed as the first drop of blood bloomed around the needle. So stark against the grayness of the room. I screamed and screamed and screamed._

_And then hands were on me and the touch shocked me even more then the sight of my blood. My view flickered between two different views as I fought to keep my eyes open, slides of gray and the bright blue sky of my hometown, of spine-chilling inhumanity and expected childhood pains. Of something so distant and yet so familiar. I didn’t know who the girl was, who they were, but I knew I should. I should know. I should remember. I should be crying for her._

_“For God’s sake kid, snap out of it!”_

_A sharp slap of a hand registered to my brain, and I felt like I was yanked out of one existence to be placed into another. Somehow, the one where I was sitting on sunbaked blacktop, my Aunt Jamie freaking out besides me, felt like the wrong one._

_I stared up into the familiar eyes of my aunt. I was panting wildly, and the feel of her cold hands on my face made me feel the sweat rolling down my cheeks._

_“Kid, kid, are you okay? My god, what happened? Why would you go down this hill? You’d only just learned how to ride a stupid bike? What were you thinking, Livi?” She was talking a mile a minute, and the only thing I could understand was the anxiousness in her voice. Her hands were flying through the air as she frantically made gestures with them, one of them running through her hair, dipping her head. Eyes widening, she saw it too._

_Her brown eyes flit up to meet my blue, a sense of reluctant understanding filling hers, like she didn’t want to admit that she was seeing it. She tentatively reached out to touch the blood, which had begun to flow less now. She had connected the tip of her finger to my knee for only a second before she pulled it back with a painful yell. She stuck the finger in her mouth and sucked on it; the skin a fiery red when she removed it. A burn. My blood had scalded her._

_I think it was then, the first time a look of fear entered her eyes. It was the first time anyone had even been afraid of me._

_It wouldn’t be the last._

* * *

_After the incident at the beginning of the summer of 1998, Aunt Jamie and I didn’t stay in the same house of our neighborhood where I’d grown up. We’d left about a week after my accident, with her telling me we had to move for her work, which she never discussed too much. So, with a few discreet moving vans and an endless number of cardboard boxes, we drove North for what seemed like hours in our little blue Honda, my knees and shoulders still healing from their scrapes, my fractured wrist in a purple cast._

_Aunt Jamie had carefully carried me home that day and washed away the blood with a damp washcloth in the bathroom. It had changed back into a red color minutes after it had appeared blue, and Jamie had brushed off the whole occurrence as nothing. I believed her, because I had no reason not to. The whole incident in itself was becoming harder and harder to remember clearly, I only remembered flashes of the crash. Slivers of the girl. It must’ve been my imagination; I’d concluded about the girl. I didn’t want to believe otherwise._

_We ended up moving into a flat in downtown NYC, in a community hub of a miss-mash of different restaurants and locally owned businesses. The flat was nice, big for New York City, and overlooked the skyline of skyscrapers and a faint outline of local parks as well. We lugged up our suitcases and boxes, having the help of a bunch of people from Jamie’s work; men and women alike well-dressed and giving off a sense of importance despite their casual dress._

_I had been fixing up my new room, excited that I got a bunch of new memorabilia from New York so far, when I peeked out into the kitchenette, where Aunt Jamie’s and another’s voice had drawn me from my hideaway._

_“What all does she know?”_

_“She doesn’t know anything; I don’t think she even remembers it all.”_

_I peered around the edge of the hallway. Aunt Jamie was talking._

_“This is the first time it’s come back. Wouldn’t it make sense to think that this means that she’s beginning to show signs of—”_

_“It doesn’t mean anything,” Jamie bit back, cutting him off. “She’s only nine, she’s a perfectly normal kid.”_

_The man, for it was a man she was talking to, grabbed her hand now, thrusting the finger that still showed signs of a burn. “This is normal?”_

_Jamie’s eyes flicked down to her finger, which was red and shiny with new skin. Threads of blue spiraled out from where the original wound had been. My aunt snatched her hand out of his grasp._

_“What do you want me to say, Coulson? Do you want me to say that I believe that she’s the biggest threat to national security? That her mere existence means horror, and destruction, and death? Is that what you want me to say? Is it?”_

_Coulson sighed, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “Is that the truth?”_

_My breath hitched, waiting for her response. A draft etched up my spine, sinking through my Disney sweatshirt._

_“I don’t know,” she shook her head, a waft of defeat coming from her. “I don’t know.”_

_I kept my eyes trained on my aunt, but this time her eyes didn’t meet mine. I was invisible to her, from her view, from her spectrum. From her understanding. Why wasn’t she standing up for me? What didn’t I know?_

_Coulson, seeming to give up a degree of his strict professionalism, laid a hand on her shoulder. Of friendship, of support. “I want to help. We knew this would come, most likely.”_

_“I know,” she sighed, leaning against the kitchen counter, her head rolling back to expose the white of her neck. “I just didn’t think she’d be so young when it would start.”_

_“You know what you have to do.”_

_Jamie only nodded and I left before I could see the look they shared, retreating back to my room, back to what I knew, what was solid. I didn’t want to know anything else. I didn’t want to know what was to come._

_Not yet._

* * *

_That evening, after a night of mac n’ cheese and Capri sun, I was curled up in a knitted blanket on our couch. Our curtains were drawn, the last of our furniture and belongings brought inside. A maze of cardboard boxes redefined the layout of the apartment. Our TV, scratchy and small, had been plugged in and set up to play whatever was on cable an hour before by Aunt Jamie. Coulson, the one half of a conversation I’d pretended to know nothing about, had left a few hours ago._

_I watched a rerun of Friends while Jamie was off doing something. She had been getting a number of phone calls before she disconnected her phone, ignoring it entirely. The flicker of city lights could be seen through the curtains. Soft padding of footsteps approached from my right, and I turned slightly in my blanket cocoon, sleepy from a full belly, to find Jamie sitting beside me. She reached for the TV remote on the coffee table and the voice of Ross was silenced sharply to an absent black screen._

_“Kid,” she began, voice soft and slow. She moved closer to me and placed an arm around my shoulders. Traffic could be heard below. She was warm as she pulled me in closer. “We need to talk.”_

* * *

_I’d barely turned nine when I moved once again, to a new home, although it would take years before I’d ever think of referring it as such. Jamie and I had been living in New York for roughly two months, weeks since the overheard conversation. Coulson, and everyone I’d seen that day, had not be around our apartment since. I didn’t mind their absence. Jamie has enrolled me in our local school system, and we had put away most of our possessions, although a few stray boxes were still strewn across our flat. Jamie had painted the walls a creamy yellow, reminding me of the suburban softness our last home had personified. My days were filled with multiplication, sitcom laugh tracks, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and Saturdays devoted to touring the city. I lived in a poster-child life for a nine-year-old, and the days and weeks slipped by as carelessly as I lived them. If it didn’t have a coating of chocolate or the answers to what the plot of the short story was, it didn’t breach my mind as being something worth thinking about._

_But I hadn’t forgotten about what my Aunt had told me that first night in the city._

_“Kid,” she’d approached the subject, biting on her lower lip slightly. “Do you remember how I told you we needed to move because of my work?”_

_“Yeah,” I’d replied, twisting the fraying edge of the blanket in my hand._

_“Well, my work is getting really busy again, and I may not be able to be with you as much these next few weeks, okay?”_

_“But where are you gonna be?” I asked, my eyes searching hers. Searching for answers, for truth._

_“I’ll be here with you when you get done with school, but I might not be able to have you with me as long as I first thought I would be able to be.”_

_My breath hitched. “You’re sending me away?”_

_“Not yet, kid, not yet,” she rapidly said, smoothing a hand over my hair. “But, eventually, you may have to move somewhere else, okay? It’s a really nice place, and the people there will take better care of you, probably way better than I could, then I can.”_

_“No,” I shook, angry and shaking with as much fury an eight-year-old could possess. “I don’t want to leave! My home is with you, not some other people!”_

_“Hey, hey, hey,” Jamie interjected, rapidly suffocating the lit fuse of my tantrum. Her tone edged from soft to firm in seconds. “That’s enough. You’re allowed to be angry, but you need to talk to me about it, not yell and stomp. I wouldn’t send you away if I didn’t absolutely have to. And I would never let you live in a place where you’d be unsafe, unhappy. Do you understand that, Livi?”_

_I nodded, reluctantly. I pressed closer to my Aunt, feeling the warmth of her skin, and the subtle beat of her heart rate, strong and steady. I latched on to the familiarity, desperately trying to get as much time experiencing that feeling of certainty, because if I could remember it as best I can, maybe it would always last. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much being sent away. Maybe it would convince me that what she was saying was true And, maybe, just maybe, it would convince me that things would be okay._

_Two months later and I was still clinging to that hope. Jamie had been busier than usual, always with work. She was already gone by the time I woke up in the morning to get ready for school, and when I got home, she was there, but she wasn’t present. A constant crease existed between her brows, and her smile lessened in frequency until the muscles seemed to give up entirely. The time I spent with her seemed to be with another person, because since we’d moved, she hadn’t been the same. I’d changed her. The move had changed her. Her work was changing her. And maybe that guy named Coulson had changed her too._

_So, when the day came when I did leave, the thought crossed my mind that the last few months with this altered her was her way of making the separation easier for me. I wanted to believe it, so I did, although the resounding ache of losing my only family I had still cut and burned deep._

_I was angry and sulking the day I left, and I didn’t hug her goodbye, despite how much I wanted to. I wanted to hold onto her and never let go, but at nine I had already developed a stubbornness that won the fight against my other emotions. I remember looking firmly ahead at the back of the seat in front of me in the car I got in, and I wouldn’t let myself look back at her, at my home._

_She had sent me away, I thought, she didn’t want me. And if she didn’t want me, then I would never show that I wanted her. It took a few years before my childhood naivete was burned off by time and experience, but that initial hurt made me cut away the strings of closeness I had with her for that first year away._

_Nine was a hard year for me, at least for those first few months. I was filled with that anger and hurt that I’d already mentioned, and I was resentful. Of her, of all the people I came to be with, and at myself. I laugh now thinking about it, but I was even resentful of what I did that made Jamie know it was time to give me away._

_It had started out as just another day. I’d woken up to the sound of a loud alarm clock, one that Jamie had set for me the previous night and dressed and eaten to get ready for school. I’d walked down the four flights of stairs to get to the lobby of our apartment building and had walked down the block to wait for the bus, like always. I was joined by the same other two kids that were picked up at this stop, a brother and sister, and we waited and argued with each other the way kids do._

_Keep in mind, this was close by to New York City, and the oldest among us was only eleven. New York City was never a truly safe place to be, but for most working parents of such kids who were old enough to be in school, busing and them waiting on the block was a given, not a choice. So, we took the risk. Being kids we didn’t see it as a risk though, only a part of our day. Sure, we knew not to talk to strangers or take their candy, but real danger? That stuff only existed in the movies and the bad guys never win, anyways. We were wildly unprepared for when it happened._

_An average looking guy, maybe early forties, balding and stocky walked up the way to us. We didn’t notice the way he looked at us, the way he seemed to almost be evaluating us, especially the youngest of our group: the eight-year old sister. His attack came as a surprise._

_He’d snatched her in his arms and was off before we had a chance to fully understand it. When her brother had yelled and ran at him, he’d knocked the kid off harshly, sending him crashing to the ground. His head made a sound a head should not make as it hit the concrete of the sidewalk. The perp had taken off in a frantic run, my own pitiful attempts at stopping him being brushed off casually._

_No one else was around yet, the city already caught up in its own business and days, pedestrians up the edge of the block and too far to do anything. He was getting away with his prey locked in his grasp. I noticed the car’s smell of exhaust before I saw it, waiting across the street scarcely fifty yards away._

_The world had seemed to slow down and be redefined in the next moments._

_I was screaming and terrified and so angry. The girl was crying, or at least would be if one of his filthy hands wasn’t clapped over her mouth. My eyes were burning, and I felt hot alligator tears drip down the side of my face._

_It started with my vision._

_I felt my eyes sting and almost shift in my skull, my vision blurring before it was jolted back into a clearer, more vivid focus. The world was moving much slower than it should be, each action surrounding me flicking by my eyes frame-by-frame, heartbeat by heartbeat. I could hear hers; it was heightened and fast and getting farther and farther away. I could feel his too. It was a disturbing parallel to hers as the adrenaline of his supposed victory coursed through his veins. The girl’s brother had a beat that was slow, almost too slow, as his consciousness drifted to a level he couldn’t reach sprawled out on the ground. And mine…mine was racing so fast I could count the beats per minute._

_I smelled the exhaust of his running car. I smelled the sweat dripping down my back, the salt similar to the smell of both her and my own tears. I felt the pound of each footstep he took, the slight shake of the ground of the cars moving so far away, and I felt the people so close, but too far away to help. I felt their presence, their life, each breath they took and each exhale they released, I felt._

_My eyes were closed, I couldn’t bear to open them. It would be too much. My brain was being overloaded, there were too many senses, too much information to process, and I couldn’t open my eyes because—_

_I opened my eyes._

_Despite my brain screaming at me not too, I opened my eyes._

_Rationality was lost to me. My heart was racing at a pace so fast I couldn’t differentiate one beat from another. I was crying from the effort of standing there, of looking, of seeing. It was all so much to process, to understand, to see, to feel._

_I felt her fear, splashing red against my vision. And I felt his joy, his excitement—his victory— a burning white. And I felt my anger, an all-encompassing, consuming black. I didn’t feel the ground as I raced after him, I didn’t feel the wind, I didn’t feel my breath, ragged in my lungs. Such trivial receptions of my senses were beneath me now, because I felt nothing other than her fear. Her burning, burning fear._

_My eyes were wide open and now I could see._

YOU MAY NOT WIN.

_I flung that thought so hard into my consciousness’ clutches, and I screamed an animal’s growl, a predator’s war cry._

_I was falling to the ground. Every atom of my being was screaming hatred at that man, every ounce of strength I possessed was directed to him. Every single shred of focus I could conjure in my mind used its energy to focus on him. I touched ground, my palms hitting flat against it, and I felt the universe bend to my will as I was consumed by the black._

_They said when they found him, it looked like he’d been struck with lightning. They said the energy coursing through him was too powerful for his body to handle, for anybody to handle. They say he was killed by unknown causes. He was killed by the same causes that made the street break into parts, crumble into black stone. He was killed by the same causes that shattered every window on the street. He was killed by the same causes that made every car parked on the street be torn apart into useless hunks of metal. He was killed by the same causes that let the girl be found by the police, resting safely—miraculously uninjured—on a part of the sidewalk that hadn’t been touched by whatever killed her would-be abductor. Curiously, her brother, despite having a concussion, was resting in a similarly intact slab of concrete._

_Aunt Jamie was with me when I woke up in the hospital, hours later, my head and body aching. The doctors and police told her I might be the luckiest one out of all of the people involved, because I seemed to survive being in the place that looked to be the epicenter of the earthquake (one of their many theories)._

_Jamie knew differently. She knew I wasn’t lucky. She knew I wasn’t fortunate. She knew who I was._

_A murderer._

_And worse than that, a murderer who didn’t regret her actions._

_A murderer who wasn’t remorseful or ashamed._

_Only scared. Of herself. And what she did. What she could do._

_What she was._

_Jamie called Coulson that night, and despite how much I hated her when they came to take me away, the only words I’d have to say to her now for what she did that night are these:_

_Thank you._

* * *

_Reflecting back on my early life has been amusing for me, I have to admit it. I can no longer deny that I’ve been stubborn, moody, and at times, petulant, for all my life. Thinking back on my moods I would slip in so easily with Jamie, the times my anger would burn so brightly I would rage, the times I was so, so stupid, it makes me want to apologize to her. For the kid that I was, for all that she had to put up with._

_I’ve wrote most of my story out to you by now. I only have the blanks to fill in, the time between now and then. I’ve mentioned them briefly, but only in sparse sentences, and I know I need to elaborate for this to be best analyzed. A story only partially told is completely misleading._

_Coulson had sent two agents to pick me up the morning after Jamie called him. She was angry that he hadn’t personally been a part of my pick-up crew, among other things, so she was short at best with them. I don’t remember much of them, only that a burlier one had taken handle of my two suitcases and hauled them in the backseat with more force then necessary. I guess when you have so much muscle on you, you sometimes underestimate the amount of strength you have. It’s an odd paradox, but it seems to exist. I’ve seen it in my training way more than I would like to say._

_I never said an official goodbye to Jamie._

_This is what you really wanted, isn’t it? My deepest feelings splayed out, dissected to find every edge of remorse, of regret? Of guilt? Isn’t it? Or is this merely my untrusting nature that you like to bring up on every personality test result I’ve ever gotten?_

_Let me save you the trouble of having to lie and say that this whole report is mandatory: I know it isn’t. I know that this specific requirement is only a requirement for me. To make sure I’m mentally capable to proceed, to be qualified. And, honestly, to think that you could slip the truth past my notice is almost laughable. I’ve been in close company with some of the best psychologists and interrogators in the entire world; I’ve been taught to detect a lie before it’s even been told. And at your command too, which I don’t need to tell you makes me laugh even more. Subtlety for getting the information you want was never a strength of yours, Coulson. Especially when it involves her._

_So, like I said, I never said goodbye. I was too far gone on the stubborn high of adolescent anger and “abandonment”, and I refused to speak to her, let alone say a heartfelt goodbye complete with hugs and kisses. I instead, climbed into the backseat of the black SUV with the indifferent expression of a professional. I didn’t look in her direction, only heard her biting remarks to your agents. They replied to her with the same flat tone I’ve heard you use so many times. You trained them well, whoever they were._

_I didn’t know we were leaving until I felt the car pull out onto the street. The seatbelt tugged against my throat, and I felt an urge to turn to look at my Aunt. Correction: I felt an urge to look at the woman who I thought was my Aunt, at the time._

_As I tried to, the belt cut into my face on my short frame, and I quickly got frustrated at being deprived my glance. We were already too far down the street for me to be able to see her, but I didn’t let that stop me from brooding on the drive._

_Now you have it in writing form: I never got to say goodbye to her. You’ve heard me say it hundreds of times. In consultations, in psych evals, in therapist offices, in personal conversations. Coulson (and probably whoever else you’ve organized to decide my fate) has heard it from me before. I don’t have any last words from her, no last look, no specific moment of goodbye. I don’t have finishing punctuation marks on the chapter of my life with her in it. I don’t have closure, no happy ending, not even an ending. All I have is a period of my life with her in it and one where she is not. I’m in the latter, currently._

_You’ve mentioned to me before your concerns about this lack of closure. I suspect, among other worries of yours concerning me, that you think in my hypothetical future career I’ll act erratically from issues stemming from the childhood trauma of separation from the maternal figure in my life. From the childhood trauma of discovering what I was, what I could do. From the trauma of being myself._

_If this is the case, then you are sadly mistaken. Unfortunately, I don’t intend to be a psychiatrist’s pet, and I refuse to lay importance to my beginnings. It doesn’t matter how I got here, not anymore. Only that I’m here. And I want to keep it that way._

_I was angry, detached, volatile, and resentful when I first arrived here. You know this and I know too. But you also know how much I changed after that first year. The first year is always awful for everyone in your program, let alone for a nine-year-old. That in itself is a trauma, the change of it all. And my stubbornness didn’t help it along._

_But I changed. I’m changed. I’ve grown from that scared little girl, Coulson. I’m no longer a psych case, no longer the little girl to be pitied. I’ve proved my worth, my value, in my time being here. Under your supervision, you have to see that. You’ve always taken a particular interest in me, Coulson, whatever the underlying motives were for first doing so. And, in doing so, you’ve helped to prove my case._

_This report was to make sure that my mental and emotional stability was secure in regard to my past. And, despite the fact that I completed the wanted information on my background and my personal testimony, I do not place the same importance on my past as you do. I know that a person’s past doesn’t matter as much as their present reality and future do. And that’s why I’m determined to make decisions now that will secure the future I desire. You’ve seen me train, you’ve seen me grow up, you’ve seen me begin to understand just what I was, what I could do. You’ve seen me realize that I have a purpose in all of this. You’ve seen me discover that my purpose lies here, with S.H.I.E.L.D._

_As an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D._

* * *

Coulson’s stare was unwavering as he watched the man finish reading the report. He watched the man’s mouth curl up in the corner as a smirk tugged his lips, the same initial amusement playing across his face as it had his when he first read it. Grey, as she was dubbed around the compound, had turned her report in to him an hour ago. Her gaze had been ignited with the familiar fire of determination that so commonly lit up her eyes that he knew reading her report would take priority. In regard to her, she always took priority in S.H.I.E.L.D. Her actions required nothing less.

He wasn’t surprised she had saw through the ruse he’d constructed with the agent who’d been in charge of her analysis. After the first few pages of docile reflection, the same quick wit and youthful arrogance had colored her words on paper as much as it did when she spoke aloud. Grey, for all of her remarks about his failed subtlety, wasn’t an expert herself. She was determined, blunt, unpolished, and filled with an arrogance that was only bearable because she could wrap it around words so well it was almost forgotten. Most people may not even recognize the quality in her, but he and his superior knew her better than most. She was, of course, their legal responsibility. Or liability, as it felt like most of the time.

“She’s a real piece of work, you do know that, Coulson?” Nick Fury asked, placing the report flat on his desk.

“Unfortunately, yes, sir.”

“Then why are you supporting her acceptance into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s academy training?” Fury’s voice dripped with equal parts interest and disbelief.

“Because despite her many faults, I believe her to be sincere in her want to help the world. Make it a better place.”

“Even though it obvious comes from deep-set insecurity and a need to feel like she matters?”

Coulson gritted his teeth at his Fury’s brash remark, despite it being the truth. “Even then.”

“She’s a risk in every way,” his boss mused, placing his cup of coffee on the front of the report. “She’s too headstrong for the position she seeks, and her stubborn dominance will only hinder her in the training regimen she’ll undertake to assume the job. And she can say she doesn’t care about her past all she wants, but she knows nothing of it. If she were to find out the truth with her rash tendencies, she may do something regretful.”

“None of the things you mentioned are definite, only possibilities. And who’s to say she ever will find out the truth? Until that becomes a reality, that isn’t a risk we need to consider. She may have a lot of risks that come with her, but she also has a lot of advantages. We have barely scratched the surface of her potential within S.H.I.E.L.D. We haven’t seen someone with this many capabilities since the super-serum success with Steve Rogers in the forties.”

“She isn’t a damn miracle, Coulson, so why are you so adamant of her being approved?” The harsh, unflinching eye of Nick Fury bore into Coulson. He wanted to deal with the real issue, the heart of this whole situation.

“If you are implying it is because of my personal ties to her, then those implications are false. I’m adamant of her being approved because I believe the pros outweigh the cons in her case,” Phil replied smoothly.

Fury didn’t believe him, but he chose to ignore his subordinate’s lie of omission. “And if I don’t share your belief? What then?”

“You have the final decision, sir, therefore I would have to abide by it, however much I do or do not agree with it.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, Fury figuring out the course of action he wanted to follow. Coulson didn’t have to know that he had already made up his mind about Grey, for his involvement in her case had been much more in depth than either her or Coulson knew of. He’d been lying silent and watchful throughout the time she’d been placed in the compound’s custody, and nine years later, he knew the moment had come when his dealings concerning her became an arrangement she was more consciously aware of. And he now knew that Coulson would be in full support of the plan he had in mind for Grey, thanks to his veiled words throughout their conversation.

“Don’t make me regret this, Coulson,” he threatened, his words the perfect blend of threatening and conciliatory. Signing his name briefly across the form that signified his acceptance of her admission into training, he made his way to leave the room. Calling out behind him, he said, “And send every file concerning her transfer and new training regimen to me. If I’m allowing an explosive to be activated, I want to be aware of every factor of its detonation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for the few people who saw the previous version of this chapter I had posted, I needed to change it, because I had a formatting issue and I realized the chapter was incomplete with where I left it, so sorry about that. This chapter is leading into her S.H.I.E.L.D. training where the story really begins, but it also sets up some plot points for later on. Also, the "Phase One" at the beginning of the chapter isn't referring to Phase One of the movies, just her story. Once, we reach the place where the beginning of the MCU timeline starts in the 2000s, I'll mark that in the title. Also, sorry for any typos or mistakes! I don't have a beta, so it's just me, and I'm only human. Anyways, thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated :) (A comment or review would make my day, haha)


	3. Remember When I Was Recruited by SHIELD Twice?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia meets the guy in the eyepatch, and the dude with the bow and arrow. 
> 
> TW: Mentions of Suicide Attempt, if you need help please contact the National Suicide Hotline via 800-273-8255.

  
  
United States, 2007  
______

_What lengths would you go to save a life?_

The car’s windshield beneath me burned my skin lightly, the sun having baked it earlier in the day. The temperature had cooled from the peak it’d reached at noon, but the metal still held some of that residual heat. 

My eyes slid open against the glint of the sun, the colliding colors of forthcoming dusk sending the sky into a disarray of pigments. I found sunsets tedious to watch, but even I could appreciate the beauty for a second or two.

I let my eyes close, trying to dull all my other senses in the process. For the last few hours, I’d been functioning on a cocktail of energy drinks and distractions, my two main sources of nutrition these days. But now I allowed myself to surrender to my thoughts, the inner monologue that had been begging to be released onto my consciousness these past few hours.

I’d been given the prior question by an unfamiliar agent hours before, in the middle of my analysis. The answer had been instantaneous.

“I’d sacrifice my own life.”

The answer was honest, at the time, and one of the agent’s eyebrows had peaked at my response. Now, I began to doubt the soundness of it.

What were the costs that truly went into fulfilling that motto? If I were to say, sacrifice my own life for someone else’s on my very first mission, looking at it on a wider scale, what good had I done? If I were to let that one innocent civilian die in exchange for my own life being saved, how many lives would I save in the future because of that one person’s sacrifice?

Everyone loves to think that they’d be willing to die for what they believe in. But when does your sacrifice become stupidity? And how are you to ever discover the difference between the two without risking making the wrong choice?

I could create as many hypothetical situations as I wanted, but would I be able to let someone die in front of me for the greater good?

Besides, I thought, who was I to judge what was for ‘the greater good’?

A sudden breeze hits me on my perch, and it thankfully takes me away from my irritating conscience. Of all things I could be thinking of right now, I was meditating on the philosophy of righteous death. I didn’t know if I should be worried or soothed by the fact that my focus was on that, considering if I were to let myself think that one thought I'd been avoiding thinking of, the same worry that had twisted my stomach now would return with double the vengeance.

Light was fading quickly, and in a few more minutes, I would be laying in the dark. I didn’t have anywhere to be tonight, but I didn’t want to be here at night, alone. I didn’t want to be anywhere except for one place in Newark, New Jersey.

My teeth gritted, and I bit on my lower lip as I began to slide off the dash of my car. A heavy weight settled in my stomach at the thought of today. It had been hours since my analysis, and I knew it would probably be days before I heard still. Every thought that slipped through the mental walls I’d put up in an attempt at keeping my sanity had caused me to spiral. If I were to get accepted, I would need to have better compartmentalizing skills.

I only needed one answer and then I would know. I would know if I had a clue of what my future would consist of and what the hell my life would be like or not. I would know if the years I’d spent trying to be ready for this—hours upon hours of work—would pay off or be for nothing. I would know if my response to the agent’s previous question would be tested, and what kind of person I actually was, for better or for worse.

To hell with ignorance is bliss, I needed an answer.

An answer I wouldn't get for who knows how long.

“Damn it,” I muttered in the open air, my flimsy shoe kicking the side of my car. Pain coiled up through my toes and I let out a curse for the pain specifically. 

"I trust that your language is targeted towards yourself and your temper tantrum, rather then at me?"

The sudden voice causes to me to jump, my hands flying up instinctively to guard my face. As I stand in my protective stance, my eyes frantically try and assess my surroundings. Peering around me, I search for the man behind the voice and feel a rush of energy run through my nervous system.

“There’s no need to be on the defensive, Grey,” the voice says again. “Not yet, that is.”

The voice attaches itself to a form, the shadows enveloping one side of the parking lot I'm in separating. I could rush to get into my car, but the voice was vaguely familiar, and the back of my neck prickled as if to tell me to stay.

He’s closer now, close enough to make out the details of his face. Words fail to aptly describe him, as a sense of foreboding follows every move he makes. I’m surprised to not be withering under the strength of his judging eye; if an eye patch wasn’t covering one of his eyes, I’m given the sense that he may be able to burn me with his stare alone. To walk with such easy authority is an attribute that I envy, to be able to show your worth simply by walking into a room. If I wasn’t unsure of his intentions being here, I may have asked him how he developed that quality.

“Who are you?” I demand, my voice ringing empty to my own ears after hearing his.

“Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.” His honesty surprises me, and my hands lower slightly. I recognize the name, but I've never had a face to connect it to before.

“Why should I believe you?”

“The better question is why shouldn’t you?” He responds, his tone almost bored with me. If all it takes to make him tired is a few questions, then he will be exhausted after a full conversation with me. That is, if he does want to talk and not kill me, the latter being the assumption I’m still leaning towards.

“There’s a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t,” I answer. “For one, you’re a stranger in the middle of New York approaching a young woman just after nightfall. That in itself is justification enough for my mistrust.”

I watch his face in response, and feel my brows knit together at what I see. Did he just… _roll his eyes at me?_

“Coulson must be delusional in his support of you,” Fury retorted, “For the only impression you’ve made on me is that you’re distrustful to the point of idiocy, and you can’t discern the intentions of anyone, not a skill that is to be taken for granted if you were in the field.”

Deciding to neglect responding to his jab, my attention snags at the familiar name. Biting the words out, I ask, “Coulson sent you?”

“Did you not just here me say I am the _Director_ of S.H.I.E.L.D.? I’m the one that sends Coulson, not the other way around.”

“If that’s so, then why are you here? Why not Coulson or another lackey? Surely, the _Director_ of S.H.I.E.L.D. has better things to do then concern himself with me,” I bite back, the words spoken with disbelief.

“I do, but unfortunately, you’ve proven yourself to be consistent pain in the ass with enough of my agents that I felt the need to personally intervene,” he sneers back, taking another step closer to me. “I won’t waste anymore time trying to convince you of my sincerity, I have many more things that take precedence over some kid’s stubbornness, which you so kindly reminded me of. So, you have two options here: one, you can decide to put aside your preconceived notions of me in favor of the much more logical truth and join me in the car waiting for me.

“Or you can continue in your ignorance and remain here, giving up the opportunity I am presenting you within the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D., and going back to the pathetic life as a eighteen-year-old who is petrified at the thought that she will never be anything more then what she is now.”

I fight to keep the neutral, indifferent expression on my face at his monologue. Each word is like a hit against the wall I thought I'd maintained well around others; the wall concealing each secret I don't want others to know. Apparently, if this stranger was able to identify them so easily, I would need to improve my act.

The Director apparently was satisfied with his monologue and had walked around me with his hands buried in his pockets, his indifference not an act.

“The choice is yours,” he calls out behind him, and I stand paralyzed, staring at the man. I didn’t know him, and yet he knew me so intimately. How did he know so much about and then decide to present me with this choice? Why was he still interested in me to go through all this effort? What stakes did he have in my recruitment? How much was I worth to him?

“You’re really offering me a job?” I shout my question at him, my apprehension towards him bending to my curiosity. “I passed the analysis?”

For a moment, I think he’s not going to answer, and that I’ll be left alone with regret and unanswered questions. I had been too busy mouthing off at him to get the needed information. This realization causes me to ball my fists at my stupidity, because I'm still met with only the noise of the city, and my own rambling theories at my results.

I’ve began to run down the street in the direction he left, determined to not let him get away, when I hear his mocking reply, “Don’t let it go to your head. You were not that impressive."

He's ahead of me, and when I’ve matched his stride aside of him, I say, “Maybe not, but they were enough to make an impression on you, which I believe is something worth more than any data analysis could provide."

* * *

The girl was bleeding, and it was my fault.

She was kneeling down on her knees with her forehead touching the ground. If I didn’t know it, I would think that she was in prayer. _Even if she was, it wouldn’t take back the fact that she lost_ , I reflect cynically. I don’t let my lips turn up into the smirk like I want to, but I don’t get out of the choke hold I have her in either.

“ _Grey_!”

Our trainer barks at me, rushing forward and wrenching me away from her. I stumble at his strong grip, tripping over my feet as I try to regain my center of balance. My eyes flit up and I blink at the flash of the lights, blinded momentarily.

I recoil from him, whirling around to cast a glare at him, but quickly reverting it back at the blonde. I reach for the towel I’d put aside to wipe away my sweat and toss it besides her at my feet. The girl, who’s rolled over onto her back, winces as she reaches a hand up to feel the blood dripping from her nose. I watch her eyes flicker to it, confusion causing her eyebrows to knit together. When she meets my eye, I say, “You’re going to need this to clean yourself up with.”

Her lip turns up in a snarl, but before she can reply I turn my back to her, my trainer’s face turning a shade redder than I thought humanely possible. I didn’t bother waiting for Lucas to holler at me again.

“I’ll be in your office, sir,” I say, my teeth attacking my lower lip.

I walk past the other recruits, their expressions a mix of some snide satisfaction at my reprimand and a few awkward looks to the ground. To the ones that kept their heads high, I met their eyes and kept their stare for as long as each one could bear. I slide through the crowd of them to the door to the hallway, my stride long and purposeful.

It had been four months since the night Fury appeared. After I'd joined him, I remember asking him how he'd found me so easily. I could've been anywhere in the city, and yet, he'd known exactly how and where to locate me. He didn’t respond directly to my question. Instead, he moved from the topic with the ease of a man whose made a living of avoiding questions with unsettling answers. I let it go; I had bigger battles to fight, but I remembered the tactic he used for future conversations.

When I arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Academy of Operations, I was met with the surprise of onlookers. The agents and staff there to welcome our arrival had given looks of confusion when I stepped out with Director Fury. I couldn’t blame them; what other agent had personally been escorted by the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. themselves to their training facility? From the overall demeanor of those I encountered that first day, my presence was as intriguing as it was unexpected. After the first introductions were made to some of the higher staff members and the ones I would come into contact with more frequently, Fury had disappeared with some other agents and I was left with a new acquaintance.

“You’ll be boarded in the third level with all the other recruits. You’re going to be in for a shock tomorrow morning when training starts. None of the staff here takes kindly to unexpected additions, and you will be starting two months later than the rest of this year’s class,” the woman explained, a new agent by the study of her age and the way she was addressed. Hill, I think her name was.

“I’ll catch up, I’ll make sure of it,” I promised, taking in the building’s main level, the entryway adorned with view of a receptionist’s desk and seating areas adjacent to both sides of the room.

“You’ll have to. If the Director himself has taken the responsibility of adding you to the Academy, he won’t allow you to fail. Especially because he’s advocating for you, despite how many objected to the idea of your recruitment,” Hill pressed the button to the elevator we stood in wait for.

“If so many objected to my recruitment, what made him go against their advice?” I asked, feeling a defensive instinct claw its way through my chest at her words.

“His personal judgement, and Coulson did put much effort in for your support as well.” My eyes widen at the mention of Coulson's name just as the elevator arrives, and with a few steps we’ve moved our conversation into its confines.

“Why are you telling me this, Agent?”

She turned and stared at me then, her gaze as level as I considered my own to be. I respected her for that.

“Because enough people high up within the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D. know about what happened in 2003 as well as your full history to be well aware of the risk you potentially propose. You have never been able to fully control yourself, and that will be detrimental eventually.”

The elevator reached the floor she pressed. The doors slid open like an escape hatch.

“So, it is entirely up to you to prove that you deserve to be here. Once you step into that training room tomorrow, you are a part of a team. And if you propose a risk of a threat to any of them by your being there, then you are putting your team in danger,” she continued, her voice not menacing or kind. Simply factual. “I don’t want to see you fail. You could be an advantageous addition to all of us. But you could also be our downfall if you do not learn how to control yourself."

With those final words, she left the elevator, and I had no choice but to follow her.

From her warning and words of advice, I’d carried that mentality with me into training the next day. The schedule was heavy, but I'd been preparing myself for it. Classes began at 6AM, after a half hour breakfast at 5AM, and then thirty minutes of jogging around the track outside. Classes consisted of tactical training, computing, languages, countries of the world, and more. Informational classes such as these were held throughout the morning, but it was in the afternoon when the classes that had given this Academy the highest dropout rate were conducted.

As the recruits were all training to become field or specialty agents, our afternoon classes drilled us in weapon training, body language, covert operations, history of espionage, instinct drills, extracting information, and a grueling physical regimen to make or break each person who took part in it. Agility, strength, speed, combative skills, and the ability to work as a unit were all required to develop an apt and skilled field agent, and the work required to become fit enough mentally and physically wasn’t for the light-hearted.

The first week I was there, three people of the twenty-four remaining in the class dropped out. When I asked about the original amount, I was told that there had been over sixty people. In two months, half of the class had left or asked to be relocated to another academy.

I hadn’t known any of the recruits that left our class. To be honest, I didn’t really know any of the ones that remained. Groups and divisions had already formed among the people by the time I was added to the mix, and I couldn’t seem to find my place with any of them. Hill’s words of wisdom regarding my teammates seemed to be irrelevant, as I wasn’t a part of any of their teams to pose a real threat to them. Maybe that wasn’t the strategy she would advise to avoid that complication, but for the time being, it worked well enough. That seemed to the attitude I’ve adopted since being here: if I was close to anyone, the only thing gained was their knowledge of where to plant a knife through my back. Allowing closeness with another person developed fear, especially in this line of work.

What started off as apprehension at their standoffishness had transformed into outright distrust as the weeks went by. Despite the motto existing of having strength in being a unit, there was enough competitiveness in the air to cultivate the opposite. Whether it be the scoreboard each recruit was ranked on in public view, or the constant times we were paired off against each other in physical combat drills, the lesson was clear: being a valuable member of a team means being able to survive if you were solo.

And what better way to test us in this matter then dividing us against each other?  
  
This afternoon, I had been doing exactly as they’d asked. Our trainer had decided to test us in the ring, pairing us off by our placements on the scoreboard located across the gym—the first thing you saw upon entering the room. I was coasting at rank number eighteen out of the twenty-one members of my class. I understood the morning’s classes alright; I’d even discovered a personal strength in reading people’s body language, but the afternoon classes were proving taxing. I didn’t have the natural skill of combat like some of my other classmates had; and I felt myself stopping myself from truly connecting to the fight. Every time I fought someone or did a drill, I wouldn’t let my mind shift into the movements. I felt my mental blockade like it was a tangible thing, and I acknowledged it like it was a protection rather than a barrier. I knew I was coasting through my classes, surviving off of the nature of others to give up before I would. I couldn’t continue on like this—I didn’t want to continue on like this—but each time I stepped into the ring, it seemed like there wasn’t any other option. I couldn’t risk the chances of releasing myself fully, not again.

I’d first been paired off with a skinny girl who was one of the few remaining who I could overpower. Our fight had lasted less than five minutes, and I was helping her off the place on my mat where she’d been pinned by me. My second fight was much the same, and I had moved off to the side of the room to contemplate my strategy for the next round. I sat on a fold-up chair, elbows on my thighs, and watched James, my next opponent, who would be challenging to beat at 6”1 and an aggressive personality in combat.

That’s when I first heard them. Standing off to the side in the middle of their own break stood a brunette and a blonde, their names as forgettable as the impression they gave me. The blonde spoke first.

“I heard that he messed up bad in his last assignment. Took a bad call and caused the whole thing to go a-wall,” she said, taking a long drink from her water bottle.

"Were there casualties?"

The blonde nods, and her friend shakes her head, eyes casting to the ground, “I don’t know what the hell his problem’s been recently.”

“He’s not exactly living up to his reputation, is he?”

The brunette rolls her eyes, snidely remarking, “C’mon, you haven’t even met the dude. What would you know about him?”

“I know enough to say that I wouldn’t want to be on Coulson’s team,” the blonde answers, sliding flyaway hairs off her forehead. “What kind of guy loses three agents on a simple recovery mission?”

Their conversation had first hit uninterested ears, but when his name was mentioned, I gave the two of them my attention. They didn’t notice my heightened interest in them, but I figured, that may be to my benefit. I began to wrap my hands again with the fabric I wore in the ring. They held my focus.

 _A dangerous thing to have_. The thought snaked into my mind before I could stop it, intermixing with the rising tide of annoyance at their callous way of talking about him. They didn't have the right to talk about him no matter what they heard. They had never even been on a mission; neither of them knew enough to earn the right of an opinion on that matter. I bit my tongue, my right hand grasping the cloth that would bind around my left wrist.

“Where’d you even here about that, Ror? That doesn’t sound like something that would be common knowledge.”

“I know people,” Ror stated. I pulled the wrap around my wrist, methodically, before I transitioned it up to fold around my palm.

The blon—Ror—spoke again just when I’d decided she didn’t know when she needed to keep her mouth shut: “People who tell me what they hear about certain… _things_.”

“‘Things?’”

I flexed my left hand. The wraps clung to my skin.

“There’s been talks of some changes high up in S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Ror elaborated, “I’ve been told that some people may be replaced.”

The black fabric was already halfway around my hand. _Around the wrist, across the palm, pull over the knuckle._

"What people?"

“A couple of directing positions—I’ve heard rumors that the main board’s been thinking of replacing Fury.”

My jaw clenched at his name. Were they really going to drag his name through the mud as well? My wrap was fastened around my thumb.

“Fury? Damn, who would’ve thought they’d ever get rid of him.”

Ror took a swig of water and then laughed.

“I guess if you get rid of a guy like Fury, then there’s no doubt that Coulson’s also getting the ax.”

The words rung themselves around in my mind. My eyes watched my fingers fasten the Velcro of the second wrap. I balled my right hand into a fist, both making sure it was properly protected and to try and get it to stop shaking.

I stood, my spine straightening. I raised my eyes and let them fall on her. Her eyes had widened at my glare only a second before I slammed my left fist into her nose.

 _Why am I such an idiot?_ I ask myself, my hand curling around the handle of Lucas’ office's door, his name proudly written on the frosted glass.

I take a seat in one of the two chairs sitting in front of his desk and wait. My head dips and I stare into my lap. My teeth are on my lower lip and my hands squeeze together tightly. They’re still wrapped in the black material of my wraps, and I notice the faint blood stains dotting over the knuckles. My skin broke beneath the wraps, but I know that the blood is hers.

I want to hit myself at my stupidity. I should’ve never let her words work on my nerves like that, despite how foolish they were. I had a lot to prove to so many people; to my trainers, to Fury, to myself. And, even Agent Coulson, to a certain extent.

I didn’t want to think of him. I hadn’t for most of my stay here. I had better things to do then dwell on him and everything that’s happened. I lived the last nine years, there was no use reliving them now. Those years were over, and Coulson hadn't extended any form of personal communication in over a year. Besides his advocating for accepting me into S.H.I.E.L.D. training, a fact I never would’ve known if Agent Hill hadn’t informed me of it, I haven’t known of him having any interest in my life extending beyond professional responsibilities. The last form of communication I’d had with him had been the report I’d submitted for my analysis, and even then, addressing him directly had been because I knew he handled the recruiting of new agents.

It had nothing to do with personal ties to him. And, as for today, no subordinate should be so directly slanderous of superior agents.

* * *

In an idealistic world, right now I would be running my five miles before going to sleep. I would be wheezing and hating every agonizing second of it and calling Coach Lucas every obscenity I could think of in my mind. I would be watching the treadmill’s dash obsessively until I had met my five miles, and then I would eagerly turn the machine off, and try and catch my breath. I would lean on the dash with my hands raking through my sweat-dampened hair, and I would face the thought that tomorrow I would be doing it all over again.

It would be like every other night I’ve had since arriving at the Academy four months ago.

But it isn't an idealistic world, and I cannot make it be otherwise.

Coach Lucas hadn’t been alone when he entered his office. He brought with him the Dean of the Academy when he’d arrived. The Dean, a woman with an utterly blank expression, had informed me that my culminated results of my time in the Academy’s classes—and the fact that they were lackluster at best—and my unprovoked act of aggression against a member of my own class had led to my dismissal from the Academy. They had provided me already with a bus ticket to New York City, and they expected me to leave within the hour. My attempts at asking for them to reconsider, to please reconsider, met unflinching resolve on their part. It took less than ten minutes to pack my belongings.

The bus is cold, too cold. Air conditioning shouldn’t be blasting in November, and what bus even has air conditioning in the first place? How kind of S.H.I.E.L.D. to find me the exception.

 _Don’t pity yourself,_ I chide myself _, this is all of your doing. You are the only one to blame here. Not S.H.I.E.L.D., or the blonde chick, or Coulson. This is_ your _fault, and no one else’s._

In the last few hours, it seems I’ve moved on from my initial anger at S.H.I.E.L.D. from their dismissal of me from the Academy. I’m now in the clutches of self-hatred and the slap of reality. My inner monologue hasn’t shut up since the moment I climbed on the bus taking me to NYC. It’s made me well-aware of the truth that I messed everything up. I took nine years of hope, work, and effort go down the drain in less than five minutes all because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. I am an idiot, and a fool, and a failure.

I failed.

It’s almost funny how much I dreamed of the last four months; how much I idolized training to become a field agent. I’d look at their guns, and their uniforms, and the purpose with which they walked and moved and _lived_. They lived each moment knowing why they were here, why they were living. They knew what they brought to the world, what had earned their place in it. And I remember how much I craved that experience, having such security in knowing you had a cause and purpose.

Actually, no, that’s not exactly right.

Throughout the last nine years I’ve known I had a purpose.

My problem was that I didn’t know what it was.

If the last four months have taught me anything, it would be that my purpose was not being an agent. I wasn't good in combat, I couldn’t let myself be apart of any team, I couldn’t even figure out how to communicate with anybody there without pissing them off royally. How funny is it that you can be so sure you're meant to do something, this one thing, only to be told you were wrong. That you've been wrong for almost your entire life.

How unique an experience it is to discover that what you thought your life’s purpose was is actually a lie.

How perfectly wonderful to discover you don’t know what you’re going to do the next week, the next day, the next hour.

How damn wonderful.

I don’t realize I’m crying until I catch my reflection in the bus window. I don’t recognize the girl looking back at me. I don’t hold her gaze.

* * *

"What do you mean you dismissed her?"

Nick Fury, in all of the things he may have expected to hear today, did not expect that. Watching the flickering image of the Dean of the Academy of Operations, he saw her neutral expression begin to falter at his harsh tone.

“I mean exactly that, sir,” she replied. “Her results in the physical and combative skill classes are below-average, and her results in developing needed technical skills to be a successful agent are nothing noteworthy. These things were already a red flag for myself and her instructors, and today she assaulted a member of her class, unprovoked.”

“Did you not think of informing me of this altercation before making your final decision? Do I need to remind you of who answers to who?”

“You do not, sir, but I assumed that there was no other way to view Grey’s behaviors and the needed repercussions.”

“Next time, Miss Reynolds, I would not be so liberal with your assumptions.”

Fury ended the call, irritated beyond words. When he decided to interfere in Grey’s addition to the Academy, these were not the results he anticipated. The reports of her developments within the classes and training were not of the caliber he expected her to meet; the only noteworthy thing within them being her keen sense of instinct and determination.

Fury didn’t believe he made the wrong call in Grey’s case. He knew that there was something yet to be revealed about Grey that would prove her to be the quality agent he knew she would be, but something was holding her back, weakening her. He had suspicions as to what it may be, but he had nothing definite. He needed to solve this problem, and he knew how he would go about doing it.

“Barton, you copy?”

"Loud and clear, sir."

Speaking into his earpiece, Fury spoke while walking down the hallway of the hellicarier, “You have a new assignment, Agent.”

* * *

New York City is how it always has been, and always will be.

Alive.

Irritatingly so, when you are trying to be anything but.

It was colder up north; my breath clouded the air in front of me as I moved down the sidewalk. The throng of people out for a night on the town soon became my hiding place, as I was swallowed by the masses and let myself flow with them in whatever direction they chose to move. They may be able to lead me somewhere where I could stay for the night.

The bus left me off at a stop in Manhattan. It was close to my old apartment, but I’d broken my lease when I’d reached the Academy. I was all too eager to leave my old life behind and accept a new one.

The last hour of the bus ride had the hour where I'd been able to pull myself together. The initial flooding of emotions had dulled into a persistent ache, one that I carried with each move I made. I couldn't let my emotions control my next movements. I needed to figure out how to fix the mistakes I've made in the last months; how to rebuild, to continue. It was easier said than done.

If I was looking at this as a survival drill, then I would follow a simple principle: shelter comes first, then water, then food. There was an abundance of hotels around here, but almost all of them would drain me of most of my limited funds I had. I would have to improvise if I wanted to preserve the money I had.

I could try and find a hotel that may offer a room to stay if I cleaned or did some other job for them, maybe a restaurant or bar would do the same thing. And, if I got truly desperate, there was the subway and other bus stops I could sleep at. I had options, they were just limited until I figured out a way to make more money and find permanent housing.

I stuffed my hands into my sweatshirt’s pockets. It felt like the temperature was dropping steadily as each minute passed. How did all of these other people seem to not mind it?

 _Easy_ , my inner voice answered. _They have alcohol keeping them warm_.

I didn't drink, but at the moment, I wouldn't mind having one.

As I muse over this, I don’t notice that the crowd’s stopped walking. I slam into the back off a scantily clad woman, the sudden contact breaking me out of my mind.

“Sorry,” I mutter, but she isn’t paying attention to me. She’s staring at something above, something that has also caught the attention of everyone else on the block.

I feel the familiar touch of ice down my spine, an instinct I had suppressed so far down I didn’t know if I still possessed it. The fact that it has renewed itself begins to send my senses spiraling down a path I remember much too clearly.

I know that I won’t be able to walk away. My head’s turning, my eyes scanning for what has everyone else captivated. The voices of those around me fade to background noise, taking a backseat to what I’m being drawn too. To whatever I am feeling that I can’t name yet, what I can’t identify.

We are standing on a sidewalk that is parallel to skyscrapers on both sides; the countless windows mirroring the lights of NYC’s nightlife. _The building is so tall it’s hard to comprehend; it makes you feel so small, so worthless. So disposable._

Those are not my thoughts. My stomach twists with nausea as I know what they’re looking at without seeing her. I know there’s a woman standing in front of an open window on the 58th floor, her body too numb to feel the wind whipping around her. Her emotions are bleeding into the air, bleeding into my blood, my veins. They’ve captivated my attention, as her resignation at her chosen fate hits my body with enough force to almost knock me to my knees.

_What more can I do?_

I desperately fight back to my feet, running across the busy street without thinking. Cars swerve around me, angry honking of horns echoing through my head. I don’t have much time.

_This is a coward’s way out. It’s fitting for me._

“No!” I scream, scaring the bystanders who’ve stopped to watch what she’ll do. “No!”

My voice careens inside my mind, almost drowning out her presence, her voice.

“You’re wrong!” I howl, slamming into the locked doors of the building she’s in. I growl a curse under my breath, grasping the door’s handle. It snaps off in my grasp. My body is out of my control, the binds protecting my mind beginning to fray as well. It's beginning to happen, and yet, I can't care about anything other than what she is going to do.

_I have no future._

“Yes! Yes, you do!” Her presence is beginning to flicker in and out of my grasp, a darkness that’s not my own beginning to consume me like it's consumed her. It’s so heavy, so powerful. How is she bearing this? “Do you have any idea how strong you are? You are so strong!”

_I have no future anymore._

The stairs are endless, so endless. I am so close, and yet she’s so far gone.

“You do! You do! You always have a future. You have such a beautiful future!”

_What do you know? What does anyone know?_

“I know that you deserve to live! You have a choice; this isn’t your only option!”

_I’m tired. I am so tired._

The darkness swells, gaining power. It has a claw wrapped around her and it’s pulling, it’s pulling. I pull back. I pull, and pull, and pull for her. She’s dimming in my mind, the light beginning to burn out; she’s slipping from me. She’s surrendering.

“No! Not yet! You don’t get to go yet!”

I’m scaling the stairs three at a time. I can’t feel myself climbing flight after flight. I’m losing myself to her.

_I’ve tried for so long. Can I please rest?_

“No! You are needed here, you are needed! You are wanted!”

The darkness is growing, filling my stomach, my lungs, my throat. It makes me want to be sick. It makes me want to let go. If I let go it promises me peace. I only have to give in.

“No! No! No!” I scream the word over and over. The light flashes, for a second, but the darkness is on it, and it is promising relief. Help. Comfort. The darkness needs the light and no one else does. The light bends to its will.

My mind is mine alone. She isn’t listening anymore. She’s willing to surrender. She wants to surrender.

I’ve made it to the 58th floor, the door is there and then I’ve opened it, and I see her. I see her. She’s left my mind, but she hasn’t left the world.

She turns to the sound of my arrival. Her face is aglow with the reflection of lights, a sign of life. She balances precariously on the window’s edge and turns her face to the light.

_I'm sorry, Mom._

She's falling.

And I give in.

The control over my mind gives way to my desperation, and I feel my breath catch in my throat as I _feel._

The world slows, sound ebbs, and sight blurs.

And it rushes back. It burns, and twists, and pulls, and consumes, and I take it, I own it all. The power-it’s mine, and hers, and everyone’s out on the street, in the city, in the world. I feel them, I feel their light, I feel and experience their every breath, I feel their horror at the woman’s final act. I feel their fear, their mourning, their devastation. And I feel her regret.

Her regret burns so brightly it digs and pounds and begs at me; it screams for a second chance, a chance to take it back. It begs to let her live.

I’m falling in pursuit of her before she finishes her plea. The world is silenced at my request, and I force it to obey my commands. The darkness doesn’t get to win this time.

I don't allow it.

Gravity encloses around me heavier then it should, and I’ve caught up to her. I clutch for her leg, my hands desperately grabbing for her in the air. I can’t catch up to her descent, I can’t overpower the darkness.

“Please,” I plead; my whisper accepted by the power exuded in the expanse of life around me.

I touch her ankle, and I have her. An eerie calm settles over me in the next few moments, as I’m gifted the ability to feel even more. I feel her gratitude at how her fall will be broken at my order, I feel her understand that she will live, I feel her mother’s overwhelming relief that her daughter was given the second chance she wanted, as they hold each other in a tearful embrace. I feel her happiness, her joy that she is still alive.

A smile curves itself on my face. I close my eyes, letting my world darken for her future, and accept my fall.

* * *

Agent Barton watched in horrified shock at the woman cutting through the air, rapidly advancing towards the pavement below.

He’d gotten his assignment from Director Fury three hours ago; his directions to track and trail Fury’s recent interest as she moved throughout the city. Fury wanted insight on her actions, a report on her next moves. Barton had been confused at first about why the Director showed so much interest in one recruit—especially a recruit that had just flunked out of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s one training academy—but then he’d read her file. And then he read her classified file. He didn’t have any doubts after doing so.

Fury wanted to know why she was failing, why she was doing it on purpose. Barton was assigned the task of discovering an answer.

Dressed in civilian clothing, Barton had trailed her undercover once he’d saw her get off at her bus stop. She’d moved with little purpose for nearly an hour, until she noticed the same thing everyone else on the street was gaping at. The woman in the window.

Barton had begun to run in the direction of the building, as he’d been trained to help people in situations just like this, but he was stopped at her sudden and rapid sprinting in the same direction. He’d winced when she let loose a scream of “No!”, the one word dripping with so much emotion that he was frozen on his place on the sidewalk.

In less than a minute after Grey had run to the building, the woman was falling. Barton frantically was tugging at his backpack, trying to fix on any S.H.I.E.L.D. equipment that would be able to help her. He’d fastened on an experimental piece to his wrist, desperation battling the rationality in his brain. He knew he was too late; there wasn’t enough time.

Then there was a second woman falling.

Realization hit him in the stomach as he saw that it was Grey.

When Barton would recount the story later, he always said that if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.

Grey, in a second’s time, had caught up to the other woman. He watched her fumble for a hold on first woman’s leg, finally touching her ankle with her one hand. Barton watched with eyebrows rising at the color rising on Grey’s arms and neck, dark blue painting itself on her pale skin.

And in the next moment, he watched her, and the other woman crash into the sidewalk. The moment they touched ground, it felt like a wall had slammed into him. It sent him, and everyone else, reeling backwards. He fell on his side, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. Still for a moment, he rose shakily back to his feet, wincing at the sting of torn skin.

The sting of pain was forgotten when he saw what lay before him.

In the middle of a hollow indented on the sidewalk and part of the pavement, lay the bodies of the woman and Grey. Neither of which were bleeding.

He rushed forward, falling to his knees at the side of the first woman. He pressed a hand to the side of her neck, astounded when he felt the steady thrum of her pulse. Moving quickly to assess Grey, who laid a few feet aside of her, he took in the appearance of darting flashes of blue chasing their way under her skin, illuminating her veins.

He was only faintly aware of the watching pedestrians studying the sight before them, one calling 911, as he placed two fingers on the side of Olivia’s neck.

Barton felt the stab of pain cutting up his arm before he felt metal. Traffic was at a stand-still, and he slammed into the side of one of the sitting cars, crumpling to his hands and knees after the impact. Gritting his teeth, he fumbled to press his earpiece.

“Fury?” He panted, a trickle of blood flowing on the side of his head. “I found her.”

* * *

_Whatever I’m laying on is very uncomfortable._

The thought enters my mind before I open my eyes, and I groan at the bright light overhead.

"Welcome back to the world of the living."

My head snaps to the sound of a voice and I hiss at the sharp pain that comes with the sudden movement. When I open my eyes again, I see a man I don’t recognize sitting in a chair besides me. Taking in what I can of my surroundings, I state, “I’m in a hospital.”

“You are,” he replies, setting the magazine he’d been paging through on my bed. “How are you feeling?”

"Is she okay?"

The man smiles, a breath of surprise escaping him. “Yeah, she’s going to be fine. She didn’t even have a concussion.”

“Good,” I breathe, shifting my eyes away from him to look at the various needles stuck in my arms.

“They placed you on an IV for the pain,” he explains without my asking. He laughs, adding, “I would’ve appreciated one of those.”

"Who are you?"

“Clint Barton. I’m an Agent with S.H.I.E.L.D.” He sticks his hand out for me to shake, which I weakly do. “Do you remember what happened?”

"Of course, I do," I answer. One doesn't forget the moment you accepted dying very easily.

He laughs again, a sound I find that I don’t mind hearing as much as others. “That’s good to know. Would you be willing to answer a few questions for me then?”

I roll my eyes, amused. “I thought you weren’t supposed to bother sick people.”

“You aren’t sick,” he counters. “Hell, you are barely injured in comparison to what you did.”

He focuses his eyes on mine again and I sense a coming shift in our conversation. “How did you do that?”

I don’t respond, and after a few moments of waiting, he continues. “I’ve read your file. When Fury showed such an interest in you, I thought the file explained it pretty well. But, nothing prepared me for this. You managed to fall fifty stories out of a building with barely a scratch. And the woman? She has no injuries. None. How?”

“You said you read my file. You’d know about 1998. This isn’t the first time I’ve shown… _this_.”

“The file doesn’t explain it though. I thought you may be able to.”

I send a glare at him. “If I were able to explain it, then I’d be able to control it. And what happened in 2003 would never had happened.” I avert my eyes from his, staring at my blueish hands.

He shifts forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “What happened there was out of your control. You know that.”

"Do I?” My eyes burn, and I clench my hands into fists. “I was the one who caused it, Barton. Nothing’s changing that.”

“Just because you have a past doesn’t mean you can’t have a future,” Barton says, his voice soft. Too soft. “Everyone has things they’d like to do differently.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here because I want to offer you a job.”

"A job?"

“As a part of my team within S.H.I.E.L.D. You have potential.”

“‘Potential?’” I repeat. “Maybe you don’t know it, but I just flunked out of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Academy of Operations today. I don’t think I’m the best fit for whatever position you’re offering.”

“One: you didn’t flunk out of the Academy today, that happened to be four days ago,” he clarifies, a look I can’t identify playing on his face. “And two: I think you’re the perfect fit for my team. I don’t think you were right for the Academy, though.”

“Why?” I question.

“If you’re asking about why you weren’t right for the Academy, I think it’s because you were too afraid of yourself to let yourself succeed. I think you hold so much guilt and resentment towards yourself that you were afraid of what you may do as an Agent. You were your own poison. It doesn’t help that you’ve proven yourself to be an arrogant, little asshat in only five minutes,” he jabs, and I laugh, ignoring the first part of what he said. Before I can reply to his compliment, he continues. “And as for why I want you on my team, I have a habit of wanting to help people. And I believe you need all the help I can give you.”

My eyebrows raise, my face losing the smile it was wearing.

He speaks before I can: “And because you proved yourself an honest person.”

"What do you mean?"

“On your analysis, you answered the question of how far you’d go to save a life by saying, ‘I’d sacrifice my own.’ There’s no doubt in my mind that you proved that true four days ago.”

I’m at a loss of words. For once, I don’t know what to say.

Barton stands and says, “Let me know what your decision is.”

He hasn’t made it even a step farther when I shout far louder than I need to, “Yes!"

He turns to look at me, one side of his mouth turned up smugly. “You have a week to rest. Then we get to work.”

I nod, and he walks toward the door to leave. The handle twists in his grip as I call out, “Wait.”

He shifts back to look at me. I look at his eyes as I breath out, “Thank you, Clint.”

"It's still Barton to you, Olivia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At 8.5k words, this was a long one to write! I restarted it three times, before I found my groove and which intro worked. I hope I'm doing an okay job at the characterization of Fury and Barton, I really want to get them right! If you have any questions or thoughts let me know in the comments! I'd love to get some feedback! Thanks for the kudos, hits, and bookmarks! Hope y'all have a great weekend :)


	4. Remember That Time I Met a Russian Assassin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia meets the infamous Black Widow, and she also has some very needed character growth.

New York, 2007  
______

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”

“If this is an attempt to make me a hostage, I would like to put in a word of objection.”

“Good luck.”

Clint had picked me up from my hospital room only five minutes ago, and in this span of time, I have conclusively discovered that a. drives like a madman, and b. may or may not be holding me for ransom. Who he’s trying to obtain my ransom fee from is unknown, but I would like to believe it’s a substantial amount of money. If not, that would be a bit depressing.

His truck was unexpected. I had thought we would be driving a car typical to S.H.I.E.L.D., a black SUV or maybe an armored van. Instead, it was a red, 1991 Ford, that showed it’s heavy usage. Boot scuffs marked up the dashboard, and a pair of fuzzy, pink dice swung back and forth from the rear-view mirror. It showed no signs of who Barton actually was, a continuous mystery to me. He was an agent, yes, but what else? Why was he selected to trail me? Why had Fury put such trust in him?

“Who are you?” I ask aloud, turning to look at him instead of the road ahead of me.

“Clint Barton.”

“I know that,” I reply. “I mean, who are you, really?”

We pull to a stoplight, and he glances over at me. His eyes reflect contentment, happiness as he says, “A husband.”

My eyebrows raise at his answer, and I try and extract any other information I can from his fleeting expression. The light changes and he looks ahead at the road once again.

“Who are you?”

This time the question comes from him, and I am confused as to how to reply. “You read my file. My name’s Olivia Grey. I was at the Academy of Operations until I was released. I was under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s eye for nine years before that.”

“I know all that,” his words mimic mine, and he probes further. “Who are you? Where are you from? Tell me about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to tell. I was raised by my Aunt until S.H.I.E.L.D. took me into their custody. My Aunt had taken me in after my parents died in a car crash when I was a baby.”

“You aren’t answering my question,” Barton responds. “I could get all that from a file. I did get all that from a file. I want to know who _you_ are. The girl who jumped from a window to save the life of a stranger, the girl who saved a life when she was in elementary school. Who is she?”

“I have a genetic anomaly. It allows me to be able to endure things other can’t, manipulate energy—”

“Stop the bullshit, Olivia,” Clint snaps, shifting his entire body in his seat to face me. We’re stuck in traffic and I am trapped in this truck. “Why did you do it? Why did you make the choice to risk your life to save them?”

I swallow heavily, my teeth nibbling my lower lip. “You don’t have much respect for privacy, do you?”

“It’s an occupational hazard.”

I take a deep breath, stalling. I try and fail to think of an answer to give him that will satisfy him. That will protect me. I somehow know that any lie I tell him will be seen through by his piercing eyes. He reminds me of Fury in that way. A confident power exudes from him. It’s admirable, really.

“Because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t. Because they were all so afraid. Because if I didn’t, I would have lost them. Because I would have felt nothing from them,” I ramble, the truth coming out messily. I imagine each word breaking down another wall I’d spent years constructing. For once my emotions are being revealed to another, and not the other way around. “Because, I can never feel that darkness again.”

The last sentence hangs in the air heavy, and I wonder if Clint will say anything at all. I wonder if the creeping fear that held those words within me for so long was right, and I would be met with judgement if I said them aloud.

A hand falls onto my shoulder and I don’t flinch away. I look into Barton’s eyes in surprise, and I am met with no dreaded sympathy, no anger or repulsion, but understanding.

“Why do you want me?” I ask, and quickly add, “On your team?”

“Because I’ve felt that fear before. And the moment I laid eyes on you, I saw you withering under it too. You bare guilt and fear in your eyes every time you look at me. That, and a fair amount of sarcasm, but we’ll deal with that issue later,” he jokes poorly, and I roll my eyes. “And I think you have what it takes to get what you want.”

I knit my brows together, and he explains further. “You want to feel like you’re needed.”

I know I’m failing to conceal my surprise at his accuracy, but before I can reply, he continues, “That’s where you’re wrong. You already are, you matter. And no amount of guilt on your conscience will change that. Your past does not decide your future.”

“I know that I matter,” I say. “I’m not suicidal. I never needed a reason to stay alive, Barton. My past doesn’t make me want to not have a future. It only makes me want to create a meaningful one. A chance for me to atone.”

We’ve started to move once again down the street, and Clint doesn’t look me in the eyes as I ask, “Can I find that chance with you?”

He’s silent as he pulls the truck over to the side of the street and parallel parks. We’re in front of a building, a school by the looks of it. I catch sight of the sign overtop the entrance: Williams Central High School.

“Why are we here?”

He rolls down his window manually and points out with his index finger to the group of teens leaving the front doors. Graduation regalia adorn them, excited cheers of freedom traveling to my ears. Parents lag behind with their respective children, and I notice the particular family Clint’s pointing at.

A mother and father are embracing what looks like their son, their slightly younger daughter standing near them. She’s smiling at her brother, who’s wearing the black gown and cap along with the rest of his class.

“Who are they?”

“Their names are Jacob and Kate Lancaster,” Clint says. “They’re brother and sister. Ever since 1998, they have been in your debt. Do you remember them?”

  1. The screaming little girl. The bus stop. The getaway car. The dead man.



“She’s the little girl,” I state. “The one I saved.”

Clint nods, and turns to look at me. I don’t back down from his stare. “You never needed to atone. You only need to forgive yourself.”

The air in the car is thick at his words, and I clear my throat. The meaning of it falls heavy on me, and I take a breath in. “You’re good at this, Clint. This whole—” I make a circle motion in the air with my hands. “—thing. You’re good.”

“I know,” he replies. “And it’s still Barton.”

“For now,” I counter. “If I’m going to join your team, I’m going to eventually earn the right to call you Clint.”

A renewed determination is warming my face and I keep eye contact confidently, “Now, when do I begin?”

* * *

Washington D.C., One Year Later, 2008  
______

He was formidable, but I’ve been dealing with formidable opponents for years.

The newbie was aggressive in the ring, but he was clumsy, and his footwork constantly put him at a disadvantage. He thrust a jab at my face meant to knock me out, but I slipped it and sent a knee hard into his ribcage.

He winced, his body caving in slightly. He was slow and before he moved to get out my range, I cast an arm around his throat, pulling. His back was against my chest as I tried to overpower him. He may be clumsy, but he was bigger than I was, and had more physical strength then I did.

I had angled myself to be flush against the ring, using that support and what strength I possessed to win. The seconds dragged on agonizingly slow, as my entire body burned with remaining my stance. He was straining to untangle himself from my grasp, his one fist trying to attack my face and the other pulling at my arm.

It was no use. I wasn’t backing down.

“I fold! I fold!” He rasped finally, tapping my shoulder.

I released him immediately and he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. My body went slack as I leaned against the netting and begged for breath. I ran my hand over my forehead, wiping away beads of sweat. 

“Not bad, kid,” I tease, a grin curving up my lips as he rubs at his throat.

“You’re…stronger…then…you…look,” he rasps.

“In more ways than one,” I reply, and offer him a hand up.

We grab each other’s wrists and he gives me a grin once he’s standing.

“I’m Caleb, Caleb James,” he introduces himself.

“Two first names?”

“My personal curse.” I roll my eyes. “What’s yours?”

“Olivia Grey.”

“Olivia,” he says it as if he’s trying to figure out whether or not he likes the word. “Can I call you Livvy?”

“You may not,” I answer, and climb down from the ring. Standing off to the side, I spot Barton, who looks to have been watching for a while.

“Where’d you find him?”

“Picked him up from Operations. He was at the top of his class in the academy,” Barton explains, beginning to walk with me down the hall of the compound.

“Am I to assume that his lack of wrestling skills is made up for otherwise?”

“He makes up for his weaknesses just as you make up for yours,” he answers.

“True,” I reply, taking a sip from the water bottle in my hands. “When is our next detail? I’ve been dormant for almost two weeks now.”

“That’s why I came. A new assignment just fell into my hands,” Barton grins, a gleeful expression creasing the corners of his eyes. “Err, your hands.”

I stop and move so that I am standing in front of him. “A solo mission? I’m getting a solo mission?”

Excitement is bubbling up through my words, the corners of my mouth curling up at the thought, and Clint smiles at it. “I trust you. You’re ready.”

My mentor grasps for something underneath his jacket and pulls out a file. I grab it eagerly as he extends it towards me. I flip it open, the details of the assignment listed and described explicitly within. My brows knit as I deflate slightly at the orders.

“This is an assassination,” I state emptily, my hands tightly clasping the papers till they crease. “Isn’t my job to save people’s lives? That’s what you recruited me for.”

“That’s what you’re doing, Olivia,” Clint says, his tone serious. “The target has been the cause of countless deaths. Deaths of innocents. I would not be giving you this mission if I didn’t think it was beneficial.”

“I wasn’t hired to be a mercenary, Barton,” I object. “How is sending me on a kill mission meant to help me?”

“Because it will prove whether you have what it takes to no longer need me as your handler,” he declares. “You don’t like killing people. I know that. But if you want to protect your team, sometimes that’s your only option. If you want to help people, you need to realize that you killing someone doesn’t make you a bad person. Not if it’s out of necessity.”

I keep his gaze as I let his lecture sink in. I realize that this past year of training and learning with Clint has all led to this moment. A look flashes across his face as he notices my new understanding.

“This is a test,” I say simply, for lack of anything better.

“This is opportunity, Olivia,” Barton clarifies. “And I know you’ll make it your bitch.”

“Damn right,” I acknowledge, flashing a smile at him before walking away. When I reach the corner, I hear him call out, “Trust yourself!”

 _I’ll need to._ I think, my eyes flitting back to the file’s contents. I trace over the target’s name, stare at the grainy image. I look at the face that will soon be the newest addition to my list. My fourth kill.

_Natalia Romanova._

* * *

Two Weeks Later

Moscow, Russia  
______

The hotel’s banquet hall was beautiful. Adorned with draped curtains and tapestries, the light of the chandeliers flickered across the décor with such tastefulness it could be compared to art.

But an even more impressive artform was the deceitfulness each guest within the hall wielded with ease. Each move, each word, each look, it all was such a brilliant and calculating lie. All of these people lived under the ruse that they knew more then the person sitting next to them, that they were safe because of this. In reality, each person was resting upon a house of cards, and at the slightest breath of betrayal, they and their livelihoods would be demolished.

How beautiful deceit looked when it was disguised as higher living.

Natalia Romanova was in attendance tonight. During my hefty amount of traveling, I had been given ample opportunity to study up on my target. Affiliated with the Red Room, a supposed graduate of the brutal—borderline barbaric—facility, Miss Romanova was a KGB operative and accomplished assassin. Clint had presented me with the opportunity of a lifetime, giving me this hit. It showed his trust within me, his faith, and it left no room for failure. I had a chance to prove myself ready for a new level of authority within S.H.I.E.L.D., and I was not going to let it slip through my fingers.

Natalia would be dead by tomorrow morning and I would feel no remorse. 

I had never enjoyed the thought of killing people, regardless of whether or not it was ethically right. A moral averse to the idea had been forged through past mistakes, and it had only been after I had extensive insight into Romanova’s past did my conscience quiet.

She had red in her ledger. The same as my own, but on a much larger, bloodier scale.

No one deserved death, but even I had to confess that her life’s work presented worthy evidence if someone would argue the opposite.

“ _Dorogoy_ , get me another whiskey, would you?”

My date for the evening slurs the drunken words to me, his fleshy hand trailing up my arm.

“ _Konechno_ ,” I answer, smiling sweetly, ignoring his straying hands as I stand.

I weave my way through the tables, hearing a variety of conversations in Russian as I do. Natalia was seated at a table a few spots down from mine. Her red hair glinted in the chandelier’s lights, seated amongst fellow vipers.

My head was pivoted downwards, but I watched her speak. A muscled man seated beside her whispered something into her ear, one arm draped over the back of her chair. She nods and pushes her chair back to stand.

I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I walk to the bar, keeping the same pace as she is. Conveniently, she walks towards the bar as well and we lean on the bar-top at the same time.

“A whiskey,” we both request in Russian at the same time, the bartender nodding in reply.

Standing close to her, I am surprised and impressed at who she is. I stand a few inches taller than her, and her appearance is much alike to all the other submissive women in the room. She blends in, effectively and effortlessly, and I begin to understand why the notorious Black Widow is so lethal. How can you stop a weapon when you don’t know that it is one?

I slip my hand into my small clutch and grab a lipstick. As I touch up my makeup, I leave something in my hand that Natalia doesn’t notice.

Shifting my attention to her, I knit my brows together as if noticing something and she glances to me. She looks me straight in the eye. I suppose she’s only submissive when she needs to be.

“ _o, Bozhe,_ I do believe your zippers come undone some.” I move smoothly to the back of her dress, and fiddle with her zipper some, as if to adjust it. I step back again, reaching for the one whiskey after I finish. “There you go.”

I smile at her and begin to walk back to my table. I watch her in my peripheral vision. She doesn’t notice the device I planted on her.

The night drags on for a few more hours. Natalia stays at her table and I stay at mine. My date, a wealthy and powerful investor, ventures farther with his hands the longer the night lasts. I am relieved for numerous reasons when Black Widow stands along with the man besides her and walks towards the lobby.

My date has just slid his hand too far down my hip for comfort when I say, “I’m sorry, _bozhe_ , but I am starting to feel sick. If you’ll excuse me.”

I stand and begin to follow my target. The sound of my heels clicking against the tile floor are lost in the thrum of music from the band and rowdy, alcohol-affected conversation. My target is gone from view, but with an adjustment of my earring and a press of a button, I watch her move in the displayed schematics of the hotel. The tracking device works flawlessly as she travels across the hologram visible only to me.

The hotel is vast, with countless levels and rooms, but the hologram’s intell allows me to see that she is on floor seventeen, in a room located next to the stairwell.

I walk demurely to the elevator, the lobby thankfully empty. I slide into the elevator’s confines, hold the close-doors button, and press for floor seventeen. I continue to hold the close-doors button as I travel up the levels, watching her heart rate spike on the hologram. The tracking device gives me her vitals, but an ability innate to only myself tells me that she is afraid.

When I reach level seventeen, ice had whispered down my spine, and I welcome it without fear. I had not spent a year training for nothing.

I breathe deeply, calmly, as I extend my reach. I search for other people on the floor, and find the few that are, asleep. Their minds are quiet, peaceful.

Black Widow’s is anything but. And so is her date’s.

Echoes of fear, struggle, and determination wade into my mind, the recess made for the onslaught prepared. I feel their thoughts, his panic-filled, hers made up dispassionate coldness. The hologram is useless to me now. I am seeing much more then it could give me now.

I let my mind remain open, trying to gain as much information as I can. I feel combat, adrenaline that causes the bearer to tremble. Natalia’s attention is divided. Half is on the man, the other is focused on suppressing the emotions she’s desperately trying to deny feeling.

I feel them. And I’m shocked at the anguish burning red I find.

The man is begging now, talking. Screaming. No one is waking up on the level, no one is hearing him besides myself and Natalia. His presence in my mind flashes anger, terror, and most of all, betrayal. The man is hurt, deeply and irrevocably. It’s consuming him, filling him with—

Nothing.

The man is giving me nothing. His presence is gone. I feel nothing from him.

Natalia, however, is screaming in my mind.

I’ve reached their door. It takes no effort to override the lock, the power in the air easily manipulated.

I open the door and am almost drowned by the emotions I feel. Natalia has lost the battle in suppressing her emotions.

But, she hasn’t lost her instincts.

A knife is aimed and thrown at me before I take another step into the door. I catch the knife in my hand before it can pierce in between my ribs.

“Good aim,” I remark, and she charges.

_Stay calm, Olivia. That power you feel? That’s in your control._

Clint’s words guide my next moves, and I channel all that I feel from Natalia back at her. The sadness, the hatred, the _grief_ I attack her with. She screams and stops mid-charge as she presses her hands to her head. I watch the Black Widow fall to her knees on a hotel floor, screaming for the emotions she herself is feeling to _stop._

I maintain keeping my target incapacitated while I study the room. No surprise or shock enters me when I see the evident marks of a fight; a broken lamp and messed furniture decorate the suite, complete with the body of her date. A knife is impaled through his throat, and I have to blink when I feel Natalia’s memory of killing him.

It makes more sense to me why S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted her dead. You can’t deny a person to be dangerous when they kill someone they love by order.

I gaze back at Natalia, whose shaking. I had never had to weaponize my abilities before on a mission. I was always with Clint, or another member of his team, and there was always sufficient weapons. The training and advice Clint had given me on controlling it had never been tested like this. I had never truly expounded on it. I had never made someone feel as I do. I had never used someone’s own emotions against them.

I had never realized how powerful it could be.

I draw closer to Natalia and break through her screaming mind to try and dig deeper. She feels anguish at what she did, regret, but strongest of all, she feels hatred. For herself. For what she is.

I could sift through and feel every emotion she’s felt throughout her entire life if I wanted. I could violate her privacy, destroy her sanity. I could use the very knife she threw at me and slit her throat cleanly, let her bleed out. It would be a quick death, merciful for who she was.

And yet, I can’t do it.

I know I could kill her, know I should. A few minutes ago, I would’ve felt no remorse. Maybe even no guilt. But, there’s something more now. Something I can’t ignore.

Natalia bleeds hope.

As her feelings play in my mind, there’s a consistent theme of feeling trapped. Of fear. Of hatred. And, most surprising, of rebellion. Missions she’d purposely botched, times she’d “missed” her mark. Rebellion colored memories of information she’d leaked, lives she’d saved. She has red in her ledger, but she wanted a way to erase it.

Natalia was trapped, but yet she continues to try and claw her way free. She hopes. She endures. She _fights._

I can’t ignore someone who fights for their right to control their own life.

I can’t kill someone like that.

Which means, I can’t kill her.

I let up my assault, and before she takes the chance to attack and overcome me, I interject, “My name’s Olivia Grey. I work with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

* * *

Barton had only reached home minutes ago. It was late, later then he should be getting home, and he knew Laura would mention it to him tomorrow morning. He knew he couldn’t keep doing it to her, she deserved better then a husband that was absent from her life the majority of the time.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. He was about to ascend the staircase when he noticed his personal phone laying on the kitchen table. Separate from his work phone, only a few had his second number, and it was reserved for emergencies. He had forgotten to grab it when he’d left the previous night.

He moved over to it and opened his voicemail, an alert showing. Holding the phone to his ear, Olivia’s voice began to play:

“ _Barton, you trust me, right? Because, I just did something that directly goes against orders and what you told me to do. I completed my mission, but not in the way that you’d think. You have to trust me when I get back, okay? You have to give her a chance. I saw things, Barton. I know things about her. God, Fury’s going to lose it when he hears of what I did. I’m sorry if this reflects badly on you, but I couldn’t kill her. I’ll explain more when I get back, I’m kind of in a rush right now, but I trusted myself. I trust myself. I know this is right. Send my love to Laura._ ”

Clint stood in happy relief at hearing from her. Two weeks had passed since she’d left, and he had waited mostly in patience, but a weight was lifted at her confirmation of safety. He had known it was time to test her, to see if Fury was right and it was time for her to advance, but he had worried for her safety, nonetheless.

But, now there was know doubt in his mind that she was ready. An agent knows when to trust themselves, and after months and months, she finally had figured out how to do that.

His hands flew quickly over his screen, dialing a number.

“Fury? It’s Barton. She’s ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy. This chapter was a labor of love. I wrote three drafts of this chapter and over ten thousand words, before I finally found something that worked! This is fresh off the press, and I will come back and edit this chapter, but for now, enjoy and please be nice! I finally got to introduce Natasha, which I'm so excited about! I'm a little worried of how she's coming off, because of how easily Olivia overpowered her, so let it be known that tested strictly in physical combat, Natasha would totally win against Liv! She's been training for years, and Olivia is a relative newb.  
> Thank you all for the hits, comments, kudos, bookmarks, all of it! A comment or kudo would make my day! Feedback helps so much! Hope you liked it, and let it be known that major plot points begin next chapter!  
> Have a good week, y'all!


	5. Phase 2| Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia makes a very, very wrong assumption about someone (or, where she first meets our favorite super solider and some other key characters)

[ ](https://tenor.com/view/captain-america-first-avenger-new-york-lost-chris-evans-gif-17842219)

New York, 2012

_____  
  


Golden. Golden light is escaping from the old light fixtures dangling over the bar, glinting against our glasses and bottles, and casting a warm hue over Caleb’s face. He was on his third drink of the night, and like all other times, he can’t hold his liquor.

“You should’ve seen the dude!” He bellows to all listening. “He’s coming at me, and he’s massive! I mean he must have been like seven feet, I ain’t kidding…”

I smile against the rim of the beer bottle I bring to my lips. I hear Grace chuckle besides me, and when I turn to look at her, her mouth is curved up in a smirk.

“God, I’d forgotten just how much of an idiot he was when he drinks.”

“How could you forget?” I remind, “Especially after the night in Hawaii.”

“Ah, yeah!” She slaps her hand against the bar, her face turning red with laughter. “I wish I had a video of him singing his beautiful rendition of Mariah Carey in that hula skirt.”

I choke slightly on my drink as I picture the memory. I wipe my mouth against my sleeve as we both break down into laughter at the absurdity of that night. Caleb—big, brawny Caleb—never failed to be amusing, much to his chagrin.

I glance over at our conversation’s topic. His face is alight as he talks to J, his hands making dramatic gestures in the air as he tells his story of a man he’d encountered yesterday whilst completing some simple surveillance work. J, thankfully, has been subdued by his own drink and listens attentively, giving enough encouragement for Caleb to continue his account.

“I can’t wait to throw that in his face the next time he’s sober,” Grace says.

“I’ll probably steel the chance before you can,” I joke, half-serious.

I search for the rest of the people I came with. The twins, the brother-sister technology specialists, were talking with someone they knew that frequented the bar often. Aaron, our sniper, was flirting with a brunette at a nearby table. She was smiling. She had fallen under his charm, the poor girl. I should warn her.

“And all of a sudden, little miss Olivia arrives and tases him before he can even throw a swing,” Caleb declares, catching my attention. “Ain’t that right, Livvy?”

“You should be thankful you’re drunk, because any other time you call me ‘Livvy’, I would’ve sent my knee between your legs,” I reply, settling against his side as he snakes his arm around my waist.

He laughs, grinning down at me. He's six feet, which means that the back of my head leans against his chest, and I exhale contentedly. His body is warm from the alcohol and it makes me at ease. I catch the look Grace extends to me.

“Don’t start with me,” I warn, my voice lacking the threatening intone I take on with others. She rolls her eyes and walks over to the twins. She grabs the hand of Brent, and he raises their entwined fingers to press a kiss to her knuckle. I smile at the two of them. They’ve been together for four months now, and I’ve never seen either happier.

Grace can think whatever she’d like, but it isn’t the same with Caleb. What started as competitiveness between the two of us eventually adapted with time to form a friendship, a close one. Caleb was one of my closest friends—my brother, first and foremost. I would do anything for him, as he would me, including finding the one who would make him happiest.

I already knew that person wasn’t me, and I was okay with that.

I glimpsed up at him, the overhead light partially obscuring his face. He caught me in the act and smiled lopsidedly, his breath smelling like the alcohol in his drink. I lowered my head again and cast my head side-to-side, taking in my people.

Somehow or another, I had met them all in the last three years. Some, such as Caleb and J, had come into my life through Barton. They had both been recruited to train under Clint’s guidance, joining his team. J replaced me after I left, which was shortly after I returned from Russia. Clint must’ve worn off on me because I had inherited his affinity for recruiting people.

But Nat was a separate topic.

As for the twins, they were the first two agents I had co-operated with when I became an official agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Peers turned friends, they soon entered into my “inner circle”. Now, despite not being in the same spectra of work and responsibilities anymore, they still met up with me and the others whenever possible at our favorite bar in New York.

Aaron I met much the same way, despite by then I had advanced several more levels within S.H.I.E.L.D. Aaron was one of the best snipers I had ever seen, and he had a loyalty unlike anyone I knew. I trusted him, and in my occupation, that was not to be said likely. I recruited him whenever possible to any mission I lead or was a part of.

Aaron was a flirt. That could not be understated, as he tried to ask me out several times within the first two weeks of meeting. He also was, however, a gifted strategist and self-titled “boy genius.” And despite the unneeded boost to his ego it would give him if he heard me say it, he had a truly remarkable mind. That was evident to anyone, and he never failed to monopolize on how attractive his intelligence made him. Well, his intelligence and his muscular physique. 

I’m caught in reverie, comfortable in the midst of the people I know best, when I catch sight of someone entering the bar.

I’m pulling away from Caleb before I realize it. She has my attention and from the intensity behind her eyes, I know this is more then a simple trip downtown for her.

She is here for her job.

“Hill,” I greet, sidling down the bar to where she’s taken a seat. “Long time no see.”

Hill’s lips turn up in acknowledgement of our last two weeks spent on assignment together. Illegal weapons shipment turned bloody by a cartel war. S.H.I.E.L.D. saw need to intervene, although no paperwork had been written to officially bind us to the event. Some things are taken care of, simple as that. I have learned that principle thoroughly throughout my life.

“Lawrence told me you would be here.”

“Well he was right,” I answer. “Whenever I have some off time, I’m usually here. Not that that happens a lot.”

Hill nods understandingly, and says, “We found him.”

“You did? Where is he?” I ask eagerly, leaning forward to better hear her hushed words.

“Kolkata.” She takes a sip from the glass of water she ordered and then continues. “Banner has been there for almost three years. After he went off the radar, he relocated and began a small medical practice in some of the slums.”

“What’s Fury’s plans, now that we know where he is?”

“I’m not sure yet. From what he’s disclosed, he doesn’t want to make contact yet. Banner hasn’t had the best history with S.H.I.E.L.D., as you know, and he wants to wait until he’s needed.”

“Does he think that will be soon?” My eyebrows are drawn together when I see her hesitate. Something had been brewing for a few months now, but I had not been given specifics. Hill, being a level higher than me, would know Fury’s course of action better than I would. Question is if she would actually tell me what she knew.

After waging a debate within herself, Hill admits, “New Mexico spooked him. And now more things are coming to light that we didn’t know of before. _Big_ things, Grey. The Director wants every line of defense possible if it would be needed.

“Which is why I’m here,” she continues, glancing around once more to make sure none are listening to our conversation. “Until interference with Banner is needed, in the meantime, Fury wants you to create contact with Stark again. He’s a risk, right now, as he hasn’t been willing to fully cooperate in the past. Fury wants you to change that. We need his allegiance.”

“Knowing Stark, that will be easier said than done.”

“Which is exactly why Fury is assigning the task to you.” Hill slides off the bar stool and makes as if she’s going to leave. “He knows you can do it.”

“Did you just compliment me?” I raise a brow in bemused surprise, teasing.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Grey,” she replies and weaves her way through tables and people to reach the door.

I remain at my place at the bar and turn down the bartender’s offer of a drink. My teeth are beginning to nibble at the flesh of my lower lip, and I force myself to stop once I notice.

I glance down at my friends, my family. They are laughing and talking to one another, all of them impeccably in place. When Grace catches my eye, she waves me down to join them and I smile at the gesture. I slide off and begin to mosey my way down to them, to Caleb’s waiting arms. I settle in his grasp with a comfortable sigh, but the nagging feeling of something being off—of something being not right—doesn’t abate. Hill would not have said anything if it weren’t something to be concerned about. She would never have revealed information if it wasn’t essential.

Which raises the question: what is it? What’s coming?

I look over all the faces I love and care about, the warmth and ease of our interactions, the comfortableness. The bar is golden and they’re smiling and happy and—

And I desperately hope my intuition is wrong.

Just this once.

* * *

I was underwater.

The water was cool and refreshing to the touch as I submerged myself fully beneath it. When I opened my eyes, the ocean’s ecosystem surrounded me, small fish swimming amongst waving patches of seaweed. The water was clear enough to see straight to the bottom, and I dived as deep as my lungs would allow me before I was forced to breach the surface.

I broke through the water to take a much-welcomed breath of fresh air and I smiled in delight as I let myself flip over onto my back. It had been so long since I’d been to the beach and my love for the ocean returned tenfold.

“You okay out there, Olivia?”

I heard Caleb call out the question from his spot on the boat, lounging on a deckchair while Aaron manned “his number one girl.” Of course, Aaron would be the one out of all of us who had a boat. That was the last part of the puzzle he needed to fully embrace his status as the privileged, white boy of our group. I would be subjecting him to some teasing later on about it, all of which he would have some nonchalant reply for. That was how we communicated.

“I’m doing wonderfully,” I answer, a grin still resting on my face.

“You should put some more sunscreen on! That pale skin of yours is going to get burnt,” Grace yells.

“In a minute,” I reply, and I know she’s rolling her eyes at me without looking.

It was the one chance I’ve had in so long to be able to get away for a vacation. Between the heavy work schedule I maintained and the typical responsibilities of being an adult, time to kick back and relax fully was few and far between. So, when Aaron had offered to take us to the beach and use his boat, I had practically leapt at the chance when I realized it would work.

In total, it was myself, Caleb, Grace, J, and of course, Aaron. Between the gentle ocean waves and the steady supply of alcohol, all of us had found a way to relax and enjoy our time off. I was at ease, and I didn’t need any ice on my spine to tell me everyone else was too.

I was still floating on my back, letting the water gently lap over my torso. I kicked my feet gently in the water and watched the ripples the movement caused. I closed my eyes against the glare of the sun and let out a satisfied sigh. In this moment, everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

I didn’t notice the sea’s increasing choppiness until a wave thrashed into me. As I was dragged underwater, my eyes instinctually snapped open and a saltiness that hadn’t been present before burned against them. I squinted them shut as I desperately began to kick and fan my arms above my head to get to the surface, my body suddenly feeling much heavier than before.

An invisible weight was keeping me from breaking through to air above. I was fighting to stay calm as my lungs began to heave at the lack of oxygen; my arms and legs were useless to the ocean’s brutal tides and pulls below the surface. A shot of worry coursed over me as I thought of the boat above. How would they ever be able to navigate this storm?

My body was beginning to tire, my limbs weakening. I opened my eyes to peer through the water and found myself legions from above.

 _I’m sinking,_ I realized, my body slipping further and further down into the ocean’s dark clutches. _A watery grave…_

It was when I was sinking that I saw her.

Not more than a few yards in front of me, there was a little girl.

Young, very young—she couldn’t have been more then five years old. She was in the water with me, and she looked so eerily calm at it all. She wasn’t fighting or thrashing as I was, she instead looked serene about the whole ordeal. She was welcoming death, embracing it even.

She looked so ordinary, so peaceful, that I began to wonder if this was a hallucination, a trick my oxygen-deprived brain was playing on me. Something meant to calm me in my last moments, to help me to remain calm—

Then she turned her head slightly and looked me in my eyes.

Blood. Thick, dripping, blood was racing down the side of her head. It made the one side of her hair thick with it, made her round childlike face seem more angled, more defined. The blood clung to the side of her jaw it was slipping down. It wasn’t seeping into the water; instead it seemed to be attached to her, as if she wasn’t in the water with me.

My gaze traveled across her now that I could really see her. Her face was pale, lips chapped. Her skin seemed to be translucent almost, as if you could see straight through it to the veins and organs beneath. Her arms were bare, as she was oddly enough wearing a Lakers’ jersey, and they bore marks among the lengths of them. Small red and pink specks trailed up them, almost looking like injection sight scars. She was thin, but not starving, and the legs slipping out from under the jersey were long and riddled with bruising and healing skin similar to the ones on her arms.

I flitted my eyes up to meet her stare again. She was coming closer, the gap between our bodies becoming smaller and smaller. An irrational panic began to course through me. I know longer was thrashing to reach the surface but to escape her. The water had a vise-like grip on me, and I couldn’t get away.

She crept closer and closer, still so calm in her actions, and it was like staring into the eyes of death. She held a preciseness in her movements, a gory grace. I didn’t want to be in the same water that she was, let alone for her to touch me, as she seemed to want to.

I was trapped, and the breath of air I was holding in was released as my mouth opened. Her hand was extended in the water, and she glided closer and closer, until her finger brushed gently over my cheek.

I tried to scream, but my lungs were drowned prior to my attempt.

* * *

I awoke in sweat-drenched sheets. My arms trembled as I peeled the sheets off of me, my legs shaking as I hurried to reach the bathroom across the hall. I collapsed to the cool tile in front of the toilet, enfolding upon myself as I waited to be sick.

I breathed heavily for a few moments, the bile rising up my throat. The acidity barely burned my tongue before it subsided, and I sat back against the tub’s rim. My head throbbed with an unseen source of pressure.

My vision spun when I opened my eyes, all of my senses feeling intensified. I couldn’t focus well-enough to concentrate on finding what was causing me to react so badly, so I sat deathly still and waited until I could calm down enough to do so.

I opened one eye slowly, peering at my hand as it glistened under the light coming from the street, perspiration giving it an odd glow. I tried to center myself by listening to the traffic outside, the angry honks of horns and the sounds of cars skidding against the street. The ringing my ears was becoming more and more quieter, in a steady descent along with my other senses. My pulse no longer raised under my fingertips, and I felt steady as I rose to my feet.

I grasped the sink as I looked into the mirror, seeing the face of someone else staring back at me. I was panting, and my shoulders were curved in slightly. I looked nothing like myself. I was someone different, someone who would have a dream like that. A _nightmare_ like that. Someone who had felt something so horrifying that it would cause her to be sick.

It had all been so real. From the water to the girl’s touch to her dead eyes. It had all been so vivid, so disorienting.

When I could breathe normally again, I pushed against the sink’s edge and straightened my posture. I took the few small steps back across the hall to my room, ready to collapse into my bed, when I took in the sight before me.

My room was a mess. It looked as if someone had thrown a fit, with the smashed furniture and scattered memories. My lamp laid in shards on the floor. Everything looked as if it had been pushed and shoved far away. Far away from my bed. From where I had laid. 

_Did I do this?_ I wondered, taking note of how a circle had been cleaved around my bed. I shook my head at my own stupidity—of course I had done it, who else would’ve?

I wrung my hair in my hands as I surveyed the damage. I had lost control of my abilities before, taken it too far, used too much, but I had never done it while I was asleep. I had always had a choice before It took over.

But this was different.

I didn’t make that decision because I was never given a choice. What had been so strong that even asleep, I couldn’t help but respond to it?

I blinked hard, trying to clear the thought from me. I needed to remain calm, to withhold myself from panicking. I had control over myself, I could find what had caused this.

I glanced down at my arms, a stray light from the street casting through my window. It landed on my forearm and showed the lazy tracings of blue erupting under my skin, spiraling and circling like a blood mandala.

I took a deep breath and as I exhaled, I let myself feel.

As my conscious expanded, I felt my mind extend slowly over the length of my apartment. I kept my pacing slow, coasting gently over every presence I felt. I nearly lost my focus as I felt Caleb’s sleep and alcohol addled mind, relaxed and unconscious on my living room couch. He had been far too drunk to try and venture getting to his place, so I had offered him a ride to my apartment. Caught up in my delirium, I had completely forgot about him.

I moved past him, reaching further, farther then the confines of my apartment complex. I traveled down into the street, brushing over each life I could find. I felt the briefest flashes of emotion from all that I encountered, gently illuminated in a scope of color. I am no longer surprised at how much anger I find—people always seem to find a reason to rage.

My muscles begin to ache at how tense I’m holding myself. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of my face as I concentrate. I don’t know how long it takes me to begin to narrow down where the chaotic feeling is coming from, the panicked feeling of disorder and madness. With each strenuous breath, I reach closer and closer to the source. I sift through the array of impressions I garner, my head aching as I reach miles and miles beyond where I physically exist.

It takes what feels like hours, but I finally pinpoint it. When I draw closer, I feel my composure begin to splinter at the force of it. Whatever is exuding this feeling, it holds a power that is almost unfathomable.

I creep closer, feeling the pressure of it begin to push back at me. I move steady on, each pace more difficult then the last. The place where the source is begins to blur as the strength of the being fills my vision. It fills my senses, my mind, my attention. I’ve never felt something so powerful before, so fascinating. Something so utterly mesmerizing.

I grit my teeth as I close the distance between myself and the source. The terror I felt when I first awoke returns as I force every sliver of my focus on the blue. My mind feels as if it’s bleeding, succumbing into the madness of what I was feeling.

It was inconceivable, really. Throughout the years of training my abilities, I had never felt anything similar to this. The intensity of it fills me so that I think I’m going to slip out of this reality, and it must be sheer insanity that causes me to reach my hands out and touch it—

I slammed into my bedroom wall and collapsed to the ground in a brittle heap before I can even process it. I feel shattered, as if every bone in my body has been individually broken with knife-like precision. My head is reeling, and when I can blink my eyes open against the pain, I am met with more blue beneath my skin than I have ever seen before. The spots where my hands touched It are burned, turning to a color similar to ash.

I brush my finger above my lip and feel a warm rush of blood dripping from my nose. My skin feels as if it’s on fire, and I curl onto my side as I wait for the burn to subside.

A groan slips past my lips before I can stop it and for a few seconds I can register nothing else but the pain.

It’s only when I hear pounding footsteps and the sound of my door opening that I can begin to understand what happened. What I saw. What I _found._

“What the hell—are you okay?” Caleb’s loud—too loud—voice lashes out in my room.

He has his hands on my arms in the next second, and I wince at his touch.

“I’m fine, I will be fine,” I reassure, but he’s not satisfied.

“You are not fine, what the hell happened? I heard a crash and I thought somebody broke in and—”

“Caleb,” I interrupt, placing a hand over top his. He meets my stare, his eyes full of fear. When I speak it’s as if I’m hearing it from far away, my mind still frantically trying to reconnect soundly to my body. “I’m okay. I had a bad dream and I reached. That’s all. I’m fine, really.”

“You’re bleeding, Olivia,” he argues. “And my god—look at your room!”

“I know, I know. I’ll deal with it later. And I’ll answer whatever questions you want later, but right now, I need you to stay calm, breathe, and please get me a glass of water.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. He’s crouched before me on the floor, looking rather silly perched on his toes. _He_ _needs to get a shower if he’s going to stay so close to me_ , I think. “Okay—okay, just give me a sec.”

Caleb stands, offering me his hand as he does. I grasp onto his wrist and he grasps onto my mine, and I stand next to him. I place a hand out to balance myself on the doorframe and his lips purse as he sees how unsteady I am. He doesn’t notice the burn marks.

He looks as if he’s going to say something, but thinks better of it, and I’m thankful when he walks down the hall towards the kitchen.

After he’s out of view, I collapse a little further. I clench my hands against the ache from where I hit the wall, my back throbbing. A migraine is coming on, and I want to beg my body to heal before I start my long day tomorrow. Made even more complicated with what I know now.

I open my eyes to the darkness of the room and glance down at my hands. A warm, blue glow emanates from my fingertips, intermixing with the familiar tone of my blood to create something richer. The burn marks have disappeared already, replaced with fresh, new skin.

I don’t know what that thing truly was or why it made me feel what I did. But, one thing’s for certain.

I needed to talk with Fury, and I needed to do it as soon as possible.

* * *

“If a random girl such as yourself would have been waiting for me in my apartment a few years ago I would have been utterly delighted,” Tony Stark drawls. “But, now, I’m a changed man.”

“I am quite relieved to hear that, as I have no interest in being yet another ‘random girl’, as you so eloquently put it.”

I am standing before one of the wide windows in Stark’s penthouse, soaking in the afternoon sun, located at the very top of Stark Tower. It appears subtlety was not a strong suit of Stark’s, for he had emblazoned his company’s insignia plainly on the tower’s side. I turn slowly around, acknowledging the apprehensive look on his face.

“That’s fantastic to hear,” he replies, “Now if you would be so kind as to tell me why the hell you’re in my apartment, I may reconsider sicking a team of security on you.”

He stood straight, his shoulders rolled back. He was dressed more casually then he usually appeared on magazine covers, but that wasn’t too surprising. The faint glow of the arc reactor shone through the long-sleeved black t-shirt he wore, paired with jeans that hung low on his torso. Stark bore every sign that he was the rich playboy he was advertised as, but despite the reputation he’d gained as being overly reckless and eager by the media, I didn’t get the same impression. His face was engraved with faint lines of worry, his overall expression and the intensity of it showing him to be more aware of his actions than others perceived him to be. His hands were lightly clasped, his fingers knuckles brushing against his palms. A sign of nervousness.

I take a few casual steps forward, as if I was approaching an acquaintance. In a way, I suppose I was. I had heard enough about Stark to configure a fair profile of him, although it would be more comprehensive by how our encounter today went.

“You have created quite a reputation over the years. Billionaire playboy turned American hero, who I hear that also has found a steady relationship with one Pepper Potts. The boss and his secretary. Do you purposefully enjoy living out each cliché you can think of, or did the cards just fall that way for you?” I respond. “But, really, only security? You are Iron Man, I would’ve thought you’d enjoy incapacitating me yourself,” I respond.

“If you insist,” he replies. “J.A.R.V.I.S, deploy!”

He flicks his wrists out, jaw clenched in anticipation.

And nothing happens.

“Deploy!” He repeats, making a more dramatic movement with his wrist.

One side of my mouth curves up as, once again, nothing happens. He rolls his eyes, an annoyed expression overtaking his face.

“This should have worked,” he mumbles, raking a hand through his hair.

“Thankfully for you, I did not break into your highly secured penthouse for the intention of harming you or Ms. Potts, who I believe is elsewhere this afternoon,” I wear an easy smile as I close a few more feet of distance between us, extending a hand. His eyes flit to it quickly before returning to my face. The way Stark stares tells me he is used to others breaking eye contact before he does. “Agent Grey, of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

He reluctantly takes my hand in his. He has a strong handshake.

“I would introduce myself, but seeing that you broke into my apartment and disabled my AI, it’s safe to assume you already know who I am.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” I reply. “I didn’t tamper at all with…J.A.R.V.I.S., is it? Clever name. The reason your AI didn’t deploy the Mark VII is because of the ongoing technological errors it is having. You would know the specifics of the faults in this model of armor much better than I would. I only have a fundamental knowledge of engineering, nothing compared to your own. I would not have the skills to be able to tamper with your AI or your suits beyond destroying them by simple force. And, seeing as how they are a valuable extension of you, and not to mention your property, it was never a consideration for me.

“And yes, Mr. Stark, I do know who you are,” I say. “The logo on the side of the building cleared that up nicely.”

He gives a throaty laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “No Nick Fury this time? He’s awfully good at breaking and entering. Did he teach you?”

“You know,” I avoid. “For most people, the amount of sarcasm you use would be off-putting. It’s deflective, an easy defense mechanism. I might even be annoyed by it now if I weren’t so familiar with it myself. You may have met your match with me.”

“In that case, Agent, do you want a drink?” He replies, casting a look back at me as he approaches his bar. He was the one to break eye contact first.

“I want answers, Mr. Stark,” I counter. “That’s why I’m here.”

“And that means you can’t have a drink? If that’s so, then I have to say S.H.I.E.L.D. sounds like quite a drag to work for.”

I approach the bar, sliding atop a bar stool. He’s pouring himself a shot of what looks like gin. “I don’t drink because I choose not to. Just as you choose to deflect the government’s attempts at controlling your suits.”

The unspoken question hangs heavy in the air between us as he places the bottle on the bar top. He’s staring at me, his jaw twitching. He’s working to maintain his guard against me.

“Is that why you’re here? For my suits?”

“No, I’m not. I’m not here for the suits or for ‘Iron Man’,” I answer. “I’m here for Tony Stark.”

He snorts derisively. “Did you practice that on your way here?”

“Just because it’s a good line doesn’t mean it’s a part of an act,” I reply. “I’ll be up front with you, Mr. Stark. I’m here because S.H.I.E.L.D. wants you to come to an official agreement with them.”

“As a weapon?”

“As an avenger.”

He glances off into the distance, taking the shot.

Stark’s body language is tense, some of the initial apprehension replaced with indecision. I find myself liking him, despite not truly knowing him. I had done research on the man before coming, debriefing myself on past occurrences with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the analysis Natasha had provided on the man. She had approved Iron Man but turned down Tony Stark. Her reasons then were valid, but a year had past since then. People can change vastly in a year and so could circumstances.

He turns his attention back to me. “Why did they send you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re just a kid,” he says. “What are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Mr. Stark, I fail to see how this applies to you.”

“That’s because it doesn’t,” he answers, his tone the same arrogant inflection he took on for most of his interviews. “Not yet, at least. But, if Eyepatch or that other agent thought to send you, then you must be more remarkable then you appear.”

“I feel as if you’re expecting me to take that as a compliment.”

“Actually, I was expecting you to take it as an opportunity to be ‘up front’ with me, as you phrased it,” he answers. His voice lacks menace or threat. I’m used to that in the field, not Stark’s mockery. “About who you are, that is. But, for the sake of time, please skip over your entire life story and focus on the interesting parts.”

I’m beginning to see why Stark was such a hard person of interest for the agents to make an impression on. He’s more intelligent than the average target, and he had a way of cutting to the core issue. He was impressive, calculating, and had natural charisma. Those qualities combined made a person excellent at extracting information. Maybe that’s why Fury assigned him to me. With my abilities, I’d be able to know his true feelings, despite his skill at assuring the opposite.

“You want my life story, Mr. Stark? If that’s the case, then you will owe me yours. And I don’t think debt is something you are familiar with.”

“You would be surprised.”

His statement surprises me. The look of regret on his face surprises me more. It also motivates me to say, “Mr. Stark, the reason I’m here is because you are my assignment. My job here is to make the goal of protecting the public possible, and S.H.I.E.L.D. believes Iron Man’s addition to the Avengers Initiative will help us achieve that goal.”

I add on boldly, “You were able to save the lives of hundreds in the last few years. You willingly put yourself in danger to achieve that. Because you were willing to do that, I believe that you will also be willing to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. as an Avenger and be a damn good one at that.”

I stare steadily into his eyes, and I watch them squint as he observes me. My speech had been inflected with more emotion then I had intended. He picked up on that. He stares at me for a few moments longer, as if seeing me in a new light. With a blink of his eye, a new resolve has appeared that wasn’t there before. His body relaxes slightly, and he pours himself another shot before saying, “Do I get vacation days?”

* * *

Fast moving masses of people are swarming New York City’s sidewalks. It’s nearly five o’ clock, and groups of pedestrians are on their way home from work. I easily shift into one of the groups, walking swiftly down the street in the direction of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters. I had completed the mission I had needed to, and now I had my own agenda to take care of. And the first thing on it was to find out where Fury was to speak with him. He had not answered any of the countless calls I'd made that morning. 

I nearly miss the sound of my phone ringing, the ringtone blending into the honks and blares of taxis and other traffic. I note the irony of the situation as I grab my phone out of my pocket and see Hill’s contact info flashing on my screen.

I accept the call and slide it up to my ear.

“Hill.”

“Grey! Where-ere are you, right-t-t now?” The urgency in her voice makes me focus, the prior thoughts and worries I’d been mulling over since I’d left Stark’s disappearing.

“I’m near Times, why? What do you need?”

“We h-had a security bre-ac-hhhhh. Target is m-m-o-vinggg near 42nd and—"

“Hill, you’re cutting in and out. I can’t understand what you’re saying,” I say.

I’m walking faster now, although I’m not sure where I’m meant to be heading. If there was a breach, then there was no telling what person escaped. If whoever it was had been important enough to be kept in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s custody instead of a customary place of containment, then there was no telling how dangerous the release of this person to the world may be.

“—white m-m-ale, 6”2, b-b-b-blon—”

“Damn it,” I uttered into my phone. Of all times to have poor phone reception, it was now? I had caught only fragments of Hill’s words, and in the next second, the line went dead, and all specifics of what I needed to do with it. 

I had to focus.

I began to compile all the information I knew. Based on the rudimentary description Hill had been able to give me, I was left with little to nothing to go on. There was any number of blonde men over six feet who may be nearing Times Square. Hell, if he was able to disappear into the crowds of people leaving their jobs, it would be nearly impossible to locate him. And then a dangerous, person-of-interest would be on the loose in the midst of one of the most densely populated cities within the U.S.

I had to locate him.

And, I accepted grimly, there was only one way to do it.

Despite my interaction with Stark, where there was no need to use my abilities, this time I had no choice in the matter. If I chose to not use them, the likelihood of him getting away before myself or any other members of my team was able to find him would be increased drastically.

Most of my time on the job, I was only an agent. But, as I’ve learned, there is a time when I was to be a weapon.

Now was one of those times. 

I was sprinting down the sidewalk, trying to navigate between the packed bodies as best I could. I saw in the distance the intersection of the three streets that made up Times Square, and by the time I was yards from reaching it, I had already reached.

Different from last night, I no longer was being drawn to something. Instead, I was the one searching. I was looking for someone who did not want to be found. I sent my presence out, the ice on my spine already having shifted my senses. My mind opened, and I began to feel the usual emotions I felt whenever I opened myself up to so many other minds.

If this man was on the run from S.H.I.E.L.D., there was a few feelings I should be on the lookout for. I should be searching for an accelerated heart rate, the shakiness that adrenaline caused, and flashes of anxiety and exhilaration could be expected.

To run and be able to concentrate enough to produce results was easier said then done. Sweat began to pool at the base of my neck, beads of it also beginning to drip down my brow. There were hundreds—no, thousands—of people to sift through. And with the constant, pounding noise of NYC, a certain amount of focus had to be used to silence it and the distractions it produced.

I was in Times Square, desperation making my breath slightly ragged. I searched for him as much with my mind as I did with my eyes. I began to feel lost among the throng of people, of presences. I had never had to reach with such franticness, and not when I couldn’t dedicate all my energy towards the process either.

 _If I could just find him_ , I thought, _or locate him, then it would make this so much easier._

I cast my being out as much as I could bear, my hold on it beginning to fragment at the strain. I ran through the streets, swerving my body through pedestrians and vehicles alike. I was beginning to lose my hold on it, and if I couldn’t take a moment to simply breathe and-

I found him.

Anxiety-soaked flashes, confusion, adrenaline, racing heart rate. My mind lit up at the revelation, and I could’ve cried out of relief. Turning my head to where I knew he would be, I was met with the faint outline of a tall frame, blonde hair glinting artificial light.

He was running, but he could never hide.

I sprinted after him in the direction he was heading, across an angry street full of cars and an annoyed group of tourists. I didn’t notice them, not truly, for I was soaking in as much of him as I could.

I was weakened, bearing less strength then usual after the search, but I narrowed my scope onto him as best as I could. I sunk my invisible claws onto the barriers of his mind, my own awareness burning at the strength of the panic I felt.

I dashed through a crosswalk in pursuit of him. I’d pried through what little defense he had away and found myself immersed in the depths of _him._

Red, white, and blue lit up behind my eyes, frantic slides of memories playing before me. I was immersed in the emotions of each and every one. I was understanding him more intimately then anyone else could imagine.

In my desperation, I silenced and ignored all the memories except for the ones that bled fear and despair the strongest. The few I found were drenched so heavily in them I couldn’t make out the actual memories.

But what they consisted of didn’t matter. Only what he felt during them did.

And like the vicious little weapon that I was, I twisted the knife’s edge of those emotions into the forefront of his conscious and let him drown.

He seemed to stumble before me on the street, tripping up. I couldn’t make him out well enough to fully tell, but by the silent screams of his I felt in my mind, I knew I’d won. He had been trapped by a snare he didn’t know existed. 

I almost felt remorse for the amount of panic and despair I felt of his from my actions, but it was forgotten as I remembered who it was I was inflicting it on. A criminal. An enemy. Someone who deserved to be in pain. I silenced my guilt some, but I never felt truly at ease whenever I had to use this skill of mine on someone. 

Finally, I had closed the gap between us.

And then I tackled him in the middle of Times Square.

He was blindsided from my attack and lost his balance before he even knew what was happening. He crashed to the ground heavily, and it was only once I was atop of him, clawing his arms behind his back did I realize how big he was.

Thank God I had another means of strength, for if I were to be faced against him physically, there was no way I would come out victorious. 

I struggled to keep him contained as I felt my mind wear, the muscles sculpting his back and upper body straining, and it was with relief that I heard screeching tires approach. 

I tilted my head to see the familiar cars of S.H.I.E.L.D., and my eyes went wide when those inside exited.

Nick Fury was approaching me—as I remained in my position on top of the man, one boot pressed harshly into his back while I held his arms behind him tightly. Not to mention the other type of attack I was still unleashing on him. Weapon indeed.

I glanced up into the Director’s eyes and was met with an annoyed expression.

“Grey, do you mind climbing off of Captain America?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter honestly was so fun to write, and includes so many important plot points! It's also fresh and I haven't had a chance to double check everything, so I'm sorry for any errors or typos or anything that is improved in the second draft. I haven't had a chance to edit it, so please be kind! She finally gets to meet Cap! Just wait until she deals with the aftermath of her actions in the next chapter. There is a reason why they're enemies at first. The extent of what she did is really expanded on in the next chapter, for this chapter was mainly to establish key plot points. I hope you liked it! Please be nice :) Thanks for all the engagement on the last chapter and you're continued support! Comments, kudos, hits, all of it are appreciated so much! Anyways, have a great week!


	6. Remember the Time I Regretted My Actions?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia, it seems, can't catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, but we get some Steve POV for the first time, so does that make up for it? Longer notes will be at the bottom, but basically, I had writer's block and then frustration, because there's so many voices to try and get right! 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the feedback on the last chapter, we're so close to 300 hits, and almost 20 kudos!

  
New York, 2012  
_____

As Steve ran down the streets of a New York that looked like nothing he remembered, an odd sense of déjà vu rolled over him. It seemed that it was only a yesterday that he had been dashing through the same city, marveling at his newfound speed and steady flow of breath in his lungs, as he pursued a fleeing HYDRA agent.

But, this time he was not pursuing anyone. This time, it was him that was being pursued.

He was trying to get lost in the swarms of people, but the focus of self-preservation that was keeping him centered was waning. He was losing the battle to stay calm, to suppress the rising tide of panic as nothing made sense. Every person he passed, every building, every flashing screen advertising something, was only reminding him of the fact that something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Steve dashed across the street, the angry honks of horns lost to him, as his heartbeat beat rapidly in his ears, drowning out all other noise. He was drawing closer to what seemed like a square, a center. He didn’t know where he wanted to go, but a center must have a lot of people in it. If he could reach it, maybe he could get lost in the crowd well enough to lose those chasing him. 

He’d been in a building. He was in a city. He was running. He had to keep running.

He repeated the facts in his mind like a mantra. If he repeated them enough, maybe he’d be able to understand it. To believe it. But, it felt wrong. It all felt wrong. Every slap of his feet against the sidewalk felt wrong, every rapid breath he inhaled and exhaled, every single second of _this_ was wrong.

Because, he’d died. He had been in a plane. He had crashed into the ocean. He had drowned. He had died.

So how in _hell_ was he here?

Steve had been right. He was approaching a square, a merging of several streets, where an epicenter of buildings seemed to be. He began to slow as he was mesmerized by the screens, the flashing words and colorful images, the sheer size of the skyscrapers. He closed and opened his eyes. It was still the same.

This was real, this was real, this was real.

His breath seemed to be trapped in his lungs and he felt his palms start to sweat as he whirled around, taking everything in. There was so much to see. Too much. It was too much. His heart was pounding faster, stronger, trapping him in its rhythm. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to slow it, to calm it, to calm himself down. He couldn’t panic, he had to stay calm. He had to stay calm, he had to stay calm, _he had to stay calm, HE HAD TO STAY CALM!_

Steve didn’t realize he’d stopped moving until he felt a passerby slam into his shoulder, casting him a glare as the man passed where he stood frozen on the sidewalk. Except it wasn’t a man, it was a soldier, and he had a weapon that was poised to shoot—

 _No, no, it’s not._ Steve thought, running a hand over his face. He felt rivulets of sweat beginning to drip down his back, and he didn’t know what was happening. His hands were shaking, his heart was pounding angrily behind his temples, and he couldn’t breathe. The desperate rasps of breath he managed to draw in seemed to be stuck in his lungs, and the feeling was all too familiar to him from his pre-serum days of asthma attacks.

 _I’m panicking_. The thought echoed from somewhere distant, but he couldn’t act on it. His eyes were still wide, taking in everything and understanding nothing.

Then it began.

He’d been injured and beat up many times in his life. He bore scars and bruises and testimonies across his body to attest to the fact that he had been in pain (although post-serum injuries left no scars). But, he had never felt anything like this.

The scene of the surrounding city and people was taken from him as something within his head snapped. Almost as if someone had flipped a switch, he felt a searing pain erupt behind his eyes, causing him to stumble forward slightly. The pain was all that he could process as he tried to regain balance, but then in the next instant, it was replaced with another pain that left him wishing for the first.

A scream that wasn’t his own was cast into his focus, the stab of horror and grief as he watched Bucky fall into the ravine before his eyes all over again. The press and throb of raging grief he’d felt in those moments is piercing, paralyzing him as lead imbeds in his stomach.

In the same second, the image and feeling was split. An eerie silence of the hospital Steve had watched his mother die in bleeds through. The desperate, childish wishes for her to not leave him twist and coil behind his eyes. The begs he’d made to whatever God there was for her to come back repeat in his memory like a broken record, a nauseating sound as the despair he’d felt in those moments is felt all over again. He'd felt so out of control in that room, and experiencing it is torturous.

It was every single loss, every single moment he’d wanted nothing more to erase, to go back and fix, lived all over again. Every emotion, every feeling, amplified into gruesome focus.

He’d only begun to relive the dread of when he’d waited for the plane to crash, when something slams strongly into his side. Waging war against his mind, he’s too preoccupied to stop whoever had tackled him from pinning him to the ground. They have his hands locked behind his back and their grip is tight. He tries to buck whoever it is off of his back—they don’t feel that heavy—but he feels drained, empty, as his mind is busy binding him with his own grief and panic.

Steve distantly hears someone say, “Grey, would you mind climbing off of Captain America?” before he’s released. Both from his physical position on the dirty sidewalk and from something he doesn’t want to think about for too long.

He’s breathes heavily in relief from the pressure and pain being removed from his head. Clarity and reality fill the absence, and when he does glance over to look at who’s surrounding him, finally regaining bearings on himself, he doesn’t notice her, the agent being pulled into conversation with a dark-haired woman.

When he would reflect back on that moment later, Steve would wish that he had seen the instant, horrified look of regret on her face as she understood.

* * *

_Mind the gap._

_You moved swiftly down the length of the train, slipping into its interior with barely a sound. Agility, who knew it was so beneficial?_

_The train was just as cold inside as it was outside, the air biting as is seeped through your uniform. Dressed in red, white, and blue, you stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of enemy territory. To be fair, though, you stuck out everywhere. Always have, now it was just in a different way._

_You crept down the length of the train, intent on what was ahead of you. You weren’t focused on what—no, who—was behind you. You loathed yourself afterwards for letting yourself be separated in two different compartments, analyzing those seconds with guilt on your conscience. It was your fault. You could’ve done better._

_You lunge back towards the brunet when doors slam shut, splitting the two of you. You glimpse him firing at several soldiers in his compartment, before focusing on the one in front of you._

_The fight you have with him is over in a matter of moments—long, adrenaline-hindered ones. Blue gunfire erupts from the weapon in his hands, hitting the walls of the train and nearly yourself a few times. You take an opportunity when it presents itself by utilizing a feature attached to the ceiling. You hang onto it as you slide down the length separating you from the HYDRA soldier, bullets slamming into your shield as you do. You kick him square in the chest, sending him to the floor. You’ve slammed your shield into him in the next moment, and the fight is over._

_You hear the sound of gunfire in the next car, where the brunet who you care a lot for is trapped with the other soldiers. You scramble to fire the HYDRA weapon into the doors barricading you, and rush forward. His gun has malfunctioned, you see, and in the next seconds you’ve traded his for yours and have killed the remaining soldier._

_“I had him on the ropes,” the brunet says, and you nod._

_“I know you did.”_

_It appears before you can really process it, the machine-soldier monstrosity of HYDRA’s appearing in the frame of the train car. You throw yourself in front of your—Friend? Brother? —without thinking twice, and the powerful blast of the HYDRA weapon barrels into your shield._

_“Get down!”_

_You and he are thrown back, and you land heavily. Pain erupts across your body, momentarily delaying your response. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the brunet fire at the enemy soldier, your shield in his one hand. Another blast hits the shield, and the man is thrust backwards, out the splayed-open side of the train._

_That’s when the first wave of panic truly hits you, settling into a deep pit in your stomach. You barely think when you hurl your shield at the machine-soldier one last time, sending him careening backwards._

_You rush over to the side of train and shout, “Bucky!”_

_Bucky. That’s what the brunet’s name is._

_You are shuffling awkwardly closer to where he dangles from the rail he’s holding on to. You don’t pay attention to how high up you are, or the danger that comes with your actions. All you can focus on is him, and that you have to help him._

_“Hang on!”_

_You’re getting closer, the wind whipping bitingly into your face. You’re freezing, and you wonder if it’s from the temperature or from a sick sense of premonition._

_Bucky is trying to get closer as you yell, “Grab my hand!”_

_You are so close to reaching him when you see the rail he’s grabbing on to give out, tearing from the train’s side, and tearing you from him._

_You hear yourself scream “No!” at his falling figure, and it mixes with his own screams._

_You were so close. You were so close._

_You could’ve done better._

_Your body starts to lurch, your stomach coiling with nausea, as the thought that you knew to be true brands itself into your mind:_

_This was your fault._

* * *

For a moment, I am not standing in a hallway with Hill inside S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. No, for a moment, I am grasping onto the edge of the train, feeling the immense heaviness of grief and guilt as if I was actually living the moment, and not just replaying his memory. I feel the weight of it all as he did, and it presses so fiercely I’m surprised he didn’t lose his grip and fall after his friend. 

The memory had burned with despair for a reason.

I don’t realize I’m falling forward until I feel Hill shove me upright. I snap out of the stupor I’d fallen into while telling the account to her and stand up straight.

I’m rolling my shoulder’s back, staring through the glass into the conference room where Fury is talking with Rogers, when Hill asks, “What else?”

I glance towards her, eyes cutting, “I've told you enough. You wanted me to give you an overview of his psych. I gave you that and memories that explain the reasons for it.”

“You know that we have to be thorough in these types of matters.”

“‘These types of matters?’” I scoff, shaking my head. More calmly I add, “It isn’t every day that a man whose been presumed dead for seventy years suddenly comes back to life. I understand the need to be thorough, but I will not disrespect his right to privacy by disclosing unneeded information.”

Hill bites back a sigh, and says, “I’m not asking you to tell me every single detail about him. I’m asking you to give me and the rest of the team that will be handling his case information.”

I quirk an eyebrow up, and pry, “So you can use him the field?”

Her silence is answer enough, and I question, “Shouldn’t he get a say in whether or not he wants to be an American hero once again?”

I can’t get a good look at his face from where we’re standing, excluded to the conversation taking place between the two men, but I see his shoulders stiffen as Fury tells him something. The Director then hands a file over to him, which he takes after a moment’s hesitation.

Hill hasn’t responded yet, so I interject before she can, “What all is he telling him?”

“General information of the time he’s woken up in, where he is, et cetera. Information on what happened to the rest of his team.”

“What about his family?” Despite what Hill believes, and everyone else who is aware of what I can do, I hadn’t combed through every memory of his. I only had needed to use a few.

“His mother and father both died before he enlisted. He had no other immediate family. And even if he did, he’d be lucky if any of them were still living.”

Hill’s comment bubbles over with a second meaning. He’s truly alone.

I bite back whatever pity begins to form for him, as I realize that he would not want it.

The brunet—Bucky—flashes in my mind, and I consider questioning her about him before letting it go. The history book lesson on the Howling Commandos suddenly seems much more useful then it had when I’d studied it years ago.

“That’s part of the reason why I’m asking for you to relate what you know from your…” she fumbles a second for a word, “…reaching, or whatever it is that you do. We know very little on what is going on inside his head right now, and until we can set him up with a psychologist, you’re the only person who can help us with that. We have to know whether or not we can trust him.”

I shift my eyes from hers to the view I have of Rogers, the man in question.

 _Can he be trusted?_ My mind whispers, and I let the echo activate the ice onto my spine till I can recall more of my time spent inside his head. Outlines of memories I had ignored skims over my conscious, until one voice speaks clearly.

_Not a perfect soldier, but a good man._

I feel rather then hear the words, the accented voice draping over the contents of an obscured moment, the faintest wisps of alcohol stinging my nostrils.

I hadn’t been completely open with Hill, as she knows. I had learned much more about Rogers then I had intended, as the most important moments of his life had played before my eyes. They had been ingrained within me. The intimacy at which I knew those who I preyed on was disturbing in its depth. Scenes of moments no one besides him had experienced were now mine as well, even if I wished they could have remained his alone.

The thought of telling Hill—or anyone else, for that matter—information that I shouldn’t even know twists my stomach. My jaw remains set, my mouth closed.

A deep weight begins to gather inside my chest, and I turn my stare away from the two men in the conference room to Hill, trying to give Rogers any privacy that I can.

“Yes, you can.”

It takes me a moment to realize that the feeling building inside of me was guilt.

* * *

Captain Steve Rogers sat in a state of confused disbelief as Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. passed him one file.

It was one file that he was given. One, flimsy, manila-paper file to tell him what had happened to every single person he loves—loved. Past-tense, not present.

He swallows uneasily as he flips it open, the tension in between his shoulder blades growing as he scans the first page and then the next. He absorbs every piece of information he reads, every word filed away into his brain. Photographic memory—another wonderful blessing of the serum. The headache that had pulsed behind his temples ever since he’d had that attack in the square intensifies.

It takes only minutes to be told of the fate of nearly everyone he had cared about, all of those who he’d thought about before the _Valkyrie_ had plummeted into the ocean. He fights down a wave of nausea as the words begin to sink in; the lingering knot of anxiety and surge of all-too familiar grief was threatening to rise again. He swallowed thickly and tried to focus on something—anything—else.

Steve wasn’t sure if it was an after-effect of whatever he’d experienced in the streets, or from the angry red of every DECEASED stamp across the faces of his loved ones, but he felt his hands begin to shake.

Anger. He was angry. At the fact that this was real, this was happening. At the emotionless information on the pages. At the fact that out of everyone he had known, he had outlived them all.

It was almost ironic. He’d spent much of his life sure that he would be the first to die and that he would die young. And yet, here he was. The last survivor and nearly a hundred years old. 

Shaking out of his thoughts, he realized he’d ripped the file, and his knuckles were white as he held the torn papers. He has to remain aware, remain calm, at least for a little while. He couldn’t let this tremulous façade fall off yet.

“Rogers, we understand how confusing all of this must be, which is why we’ve secured an apartment for you to stay at. It’s equipped with anything you may need, and we have transportation for you. There’s also a room here if you’d prefer.”

“I wouldn’t,” Steve snaps, bitterness tainting his words. He didn’t mean for them to come out that way, but his jaw is clenched painfully, and his hands won’t stop shaking, no matter how tightly he has them fisted. He doesn’t miss how Fury is watching his reaction, his every move.

“In that case, you are free to go to your apartment. We’ve lined up several agents to assist in helping you settle in and adjust, one of which will be here shortly.” Fury pauses, and Steve waits for the catch. “However, we do want you to see a physician to make sure there isn’t any lasting effects of the ice. And we have an official psychologist who we think would be in your best interests to see.”

A psychologist? The word sounds familiar, but he doesn’t know why they would think he would need to see one. He has a faint recollection of men he’d served with; ones who had begun to crack and crumble under the stresses of war, and how they had been given counsel by psychologists. Steve had watched some of the strongest men he’d known fray and tear until they were forced to take break from battle. Some left to recover for a few days and never returned. He’d known of two soldiers he could name who had shot themselves, rather than return to the front lines. They’d broke, and everyone—including the psychologists—had been too late to save them.

Did they think he would do the same? Did they really think he was so unstable, so fragile? He didn’t need a psychologist. The only thing he needed was quiet and space and to be alone. He needed to be alone to try and accept that this was happening, that he was somehow still here. That he was the only one left standing after he'd chosen to lay down his life for others, for the ones he loved. To save all those he could.

Despite the good he knew he’d done, it seemed like an empty victory. Because, everyone he was supposed to return home with were dead. They had lived their lives while he had missed his. There was no denying it. The truth was simple: there was no team, no more purpose, and no one to go home too.

Where did that leave him?

What was he supposed to do when he had already lived out his purpose? He had been meant to take down that plane, eliminate HYDRA, avenge those he’d lost, and save those he loved.

Now, there was no one to save, no one to avenge. No enemy he had to go out and face. He had beaten the bully. He had crashed into the ocean and he had _died_.

He could still feel the ice against his skin to prove it, the muscle-memory of impact into the water in his last minutes. A shiver rolls down his spine before he can stop it.

He doesn’t want to remember the people in the file, he doesn’t want the lingering memories that had left him begging for air earlier to still linger, to threaten to crack and destroy the numbness he was fighting to maintain.

With a sickening twist to his stomach, Steve realizes that just because he doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t mean he’ll ever be able to forget.

* * *

The coffee is cold, and the bagel is stale, but the relief I feel being in the company of Caleb in an empty control room is almost palpable.

“Deciding to climb atop a random man on the street is not what I meant when I said you should ‘get out more.’”

I roll my eyes at him and kick his leg. My other leg was draped across his knees, as we sat at one of the rows of desks. His legs are crossed and perched atop the desktop as he leans back in a swivel chair. A teasing smile pulls at his face, and I am more relaxed then I’ve been all day.

“It wasn’t like I had been planning on jumping someone that morning, let alone him,” I reply, taking the final swig of coffee I have remaining.

He shakes his head, “That is one whacked-out science experiment if I’ve ever seen one. How the hell is it even possible to be frozen for seventy years and still be alive?”

“You’ve read the file, and besides, we all know the story. Captain Rogers was chosen for Project: Rebirth, was given the serum, and is who he is. It doesn’t have to make sense, it just is.”

I’m biting my lower lip, and I don’t realize it till I feel the sting of it breaking open. As soon as Caleb notices what I’m doing, he tosses aside his playful demeanor and replaces it with one of concern. He’s leaning forward and placing his hand on my shoulder before I realize it.

“Hey, you were doing your job. If anyone is giving you trouble for that, then it’s their ignorance.”

His words are meant to be comforting, but he doesn’t understand what I’m really upset about. And I can’t blame him. I don’t know why I’m upset about it either, not when logic exists.

I _had_ been doing my job. It was an honest mistake. If I had known who I was pursuing and why I was pursuing him, I would never have done as I had. I never would’ve used that weapon, of all the ones I had. I would’ve chosen one that had only stopped him, rather than incapacitate as this one had. I never would’ve sharpened his past griefs and traumas till it was a blade that would make him bleed. 

I thought I had moved on from the days when I felt guilt for what I did within my job. I had come to terms with the necessity of my abilities, the advantage they were. I had settled into the power they gave me.

But I was still guilty. And the guilt, atop with everything else that was fighting for precedence inside my brain, was proving hard to work through.

“I know,” I say, pasting a lazy smile onto my face.

“Good, because it’s the truth.”

I pull him into a quick one-armed hug, and then pull back and finish my bagel. I have Rogers’ file on the desk besides me, but the information is lacking what I need to know. How long ago had they found him? Who was handling his case? What means of therapy and support had been given, as he would doubtlessly be needing them?

I understand the pain of losing even one you loved and how sharp and heavy the burden of it is. I could barely imagine what he must be going through. At least he still has her left.

I lean back in my seat and let my eyes close. I am not assigned to Rogers’, so I have no justifiable means to intervene in his case. I should have no interest in him whatsoever, as I have no right to want to learn more about how he’s being handled or Fury’s intentions with him.

Not yet, at least. Because it’s doubtless that Fury does have him in mind for something, and I have a growing suspicion I know what it is. But, even Fury couldn’t have the audacity to ask that of him. Even if he was on edge, as Hill had said.

He couldn’t ask him to join something that is essentially signing him up for any future conflict when Rogers, in his perspective, had just fought in and ended a war?

And yet, I knew that was what Fury was going to do. He’d take advantage of the fact that Rogers had no other options, and he’d use that tool till he got what he wanted. And he wouldn't wait long.

The Director wasn’t a bad man. But in the moments when the light shifted, it became apparent that he wasn’t always a good one either.

I shouldn’t be concerned, or irritated, at Fury’s plans. They would serve S.H.I.E.L.D. well; if Rogers did join, he would doubtlessly be a vital addition. Looking at it from an agent’s perspective, Fury’s reasonings and tactics were genius and strategically advantageous.

But, from the perspective of someone who knew what it was like to want to be viewed as more then their abilities, I let myself be angry for Roger’s sake. The anger brewed and stirred in the few minutes more I spent in the quiet of that room, and then I stood and gathered myself. I set my expression to one of steely professionalism, and left the room, my every step as only an agent. 

* * *

“Captain Rogers, I’d like to introduce you to Agent West. She will be showing you to your apartment and will be here to help make the transition process easier,” Fury says, motioning for West to step forward. She obliges and sticks out her hand for Steve to shake.

“Captain, it is a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for your service to our country,” she says politely with eager eyes and a wide, meant to be welcoming, smile.

Steve takes her hand firmly, his eyes evaluating. “Just call me Steve.”

She grins, pleased with his reply. “Steve then, would you follow me?”

Steve does, and soon the two of them are walking in a stilted silence down the halls of the spacious building. Between the curious looks he’s getting from almost all he passes, and the repeated glances West is casting his way, he begins to feel like he’s on display. He wonders how many knew he was still alive, shuttered away in that fake room. Seeing the constructed scene after he’d broken out of it had been jarring, but it could never had prepared him for what it was like to stand in the middle of a New York City that was nothing like he remembered.

Turning to West, Steve decides to try and gain any information from her that he can. “How long has it been since they’ve found me?”

She blinks in surprise at his question, but quickly fixes her face into a neutral, expression. “They found you a week ago, in the wreckage. They brought you here a few days ago. You thawed out, and…well, you know the rest.”

“You were involved from the beginning?”

“No, I mean, not really,” West fumbles. “I’d heard rumors of something, but I didn’t know it was you they were talking about. I mean, who would’ve expected that a war hero, super-soldier that’s been supposedly dead for seventy years would suddenly be alive and in New York?”

Steve fights annoyance at her remarks, but she doesn’t pick up on it. “Fury assigned me to help you get settled only hours ago, which I was happy to do. I’d grown up with stories of you all my life. I mean, you’re Captain America. You’re a legend, anyone here would have been overjoyed to work with you.”

West casts him a smile that almost embarrassed, her words rushed from her apparent excitement.

He knows he shouldn’t be irritated with her. But, her excitement and eagerness to be assigned him was a constant reminder of what he was expected to be. She was a physical manifestation of what he suspected S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted from him. They wanted Captain America, the patriotic, golden boy who’d laid his life down for his country and would again. They wanted the super-soldier, and if they wanted Captain America, then there was something they were not telling him.

Because why would they want the soldier if there wasn’t a war to be fought?

And to what lengths would they go to get what they wanted? How much say would he have, and how much would he have to fight for that?

_Was fighting for a say even worth it?_

He thinks the last question and expects himself to feel indignation at it. But, instead, he’s met with the same numbness that had existed all throughout his meeting with Fury. And even then that had been broken occasionally by anger. But, now, he felt nothing at this apparent loss of control. Because, even if he did fight for a say, what would that get him?

The only thing he had ever wanted throughout his life was a family with the white-picket fence. And that was supposed to be the reward, after the fight had been over. After the war was over, that was what he had hoped for.

But the life in which he got that hope fulfilled had been taken, snatched from his hands before he’d ever been able to live it.

Steve Rogers, and the life that he was about to live, had died in _the Valkyrie_. And now, everyone expected him to step into the life Captain America was expected to live. To fight the wars no one else could. Over, and over, and over, and over, until the end.

And if he did just that? If he were to shed one identity for another, he didn’t think anyone would mind. S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly wouldn’t.

He felt no emotion towards this seemingly inevitable conclusion. His rejections towards this life rang hollow. He was to play the part they wanted, and no one would object. The only ones that would have were dead. Including himself.

“Captain?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You just seemed distracted. I was saying that S.H.I.E.L.D. will provide whatever means of transportation you would like, among—”

Steve wasn’t actively listening to West when he saw her. The woman from earlier.

He had only gotten a passing glimpse of her before she climbed into a waiting SUV, but her profile was unmistakable as she strode down the hallway in their direction. The broad glass windows cast light that cut harsh shadows into her face, accentuating the angles of her visage.

In contrast to all the other people he’d encountered or passed in the building, her eyes didn’t linger on him. She didn’t gape at him, in fact, she barely sent him a passing glance. Her gaze was analyzing and sharp, and in the moment she gave him her attention, he felt exposed under her eye.

“Who was the woman?”

He asked the question the second after she was out of view, and if Agent West was offended that he’d interrupted her, she didn’t show it.

“What woman?”

“The woman we just passed. Who was she?”

He watches her pause for a moment, and she'd obviously unsure how she should proceed.

She contemplates, averting her gaze, and says, “Her name is Agent Grey. She’s an agent within S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Is she another agent that Fury assigned to me?” They climb into the elevator, and West presses for the lobby floor.

“No, but Agent Hill asked for her to help locate you earlier because of her…” Steve watches the young agent pause, as if she’d caught herself before revealing too much. “…abilities.”

He turns and faces her directly. “What do you mean abilities?” Had she been enhanced as well?

Taking a deep breath in, almost as if she was preparing for a confession, she explains, “Grey assumed that you were a threat and thought it best to neutralize you. And, she decided to do so in a way that only she could. She can cause panic, terror—she attacks in more ways than physical.” An indiscernible expression crosses her face, and she pauses. Just as Steve begins to understand what she’s told him, Agent West adds, “I think you would understand how brutal her attacks can be.”

He feels a quell of fury, almost stronger than the numbness, as he recalls what it felt like to experience the panic and guilt she was able to bring on. How she was able to dredge up every memory that he’d carefully suppressed and use them against him. It felt like a violation, like an assault. Like someone he could easily direct his anger towards. He didn't care how that made him look, or how disappointed his Ma would be if she knew that was how he was handling things. 

“There’s a great number of people who call her agent, but it seems that she prefers the term assailant.”

He didn’t need to hear any more about her or anyone else for the matter. In his attempt to find a distraction, he’s found an irritation. 

Because Steve did not like bullies, no matter who they were.

* * *

My body is heavy, every step laborious, as I climb up the last flight of stairs to reach my apartment. As soon as I enter my apartment, I sigh out of relief as I slip my shoes off and sling my bag and coat over the back of the couch.

To say that it had been a long day would be an understatement. Despite my best efforts, I had not been able to see Fury. After his meeting with Rogers, he had disappeared and of course, would not pick up his phone. I had repeatedly called him throughout the rest of the night and each time was met with the dull click of his voicemail.

Frustrated at his silence, I had dived into other work I had remaining. Paperwork had preoccupied me for hours, along with a hefty amount of studying files of various people of interest. A few I had snuck into my bag, along with my personal notes and tie-ins to other assignments I wanted to explore. On nights I couldn’t sleep, I spent poring over my work until the first light of day began to peek through my curtains.

Tonight didn’t feel like one of those nights.

Exhaustion was spreading like lead in my veins, and I fumbled into the kitchen. I grabbed a box of cereal from a cabinet and ate straight from it as I moved into my bedroom.

I collapsed onto my bed and peeked at my phone’s clock to see that it was a little after two in the morning.

I rubbed a hand over my eyes, trying to erase the crease between my brows. I couldn’t lose the worry over work, and I had to remind myself to release the tension in my shoulders.

After the disastrous first meeting with him, I had only seen Rogers once. I had passed him in the hall moments after leaving the room I’d been in with Caleb; his eyes weary but sharp when I’d met them. A mix of exhaustion and anger, a confusing combination. If I could joke about it, I’d think it ironic that someone who’d been asleep for seventy years could still be tired.

Even super-soldiers have their limits, it seems.

For his part, he didn’t seem to angry at me. I considered that he may not recognize me. He may not have had a good-enough look to know who I was in passing, but the way he hold my eye told a different story.

Whoever had his case would have quite a challenge, for Rogers would see through whatever bullshit they spewed at him.

An alert on my phone caught my attention. I glanced at it to see I had two missed calls from Barton. I had forgotten about our weekly call tonight, the excitement of the day distracting. He’d been away on assignment for the last few weeks, and the distance meant our only means of communications were rushed phone calls between our equally hectic schedules. I wasn’t able to see him as much as I would’ve liked. His presence was steadying, and he always had a voice of reason.

I needed that comfort right now, the familiarity of his expressions and the assurance that I would crack at least one smile through our conversation. But, seeing as it was two in the morning and we both valued sleep highly, I wouldn’t chance waking him.

I had eaten a few handfuls of cereal before placing the box on my nightstand and crawling under the blankets. An alarm was set for the next day, and my eyes had drifted shut. I was in the state between awake and asleep when I heard it at first.

A distant pounding, growing louder and louder as I became more and more awake. Grumbling, I stumbled my way out of bed and to the front door.

Cautious at whoever was calling at this time of night, I peered through the peephole and felt my mouth drop at who I saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are life, and I appreciate you all! 
> 
> Next Chapter: Steve and Olivia meet, and a whole bunch of other things happen (aka plot)


	7. Remember the Time You Hated Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s angry, grieving, and he’s been placed in a world that he doesn’t know. Anyone, but especially him, would deserve to be treated as a person in addition to an assignment. And if being treated like a person means giving him someone that he can direct his grief and anger at, then I can be that person.
> 
> He needs someone. Even if it's me. Even if I'm someone he can only hate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, it's been almost three weeks, I am so sorry for the wait. Life, writers' block, and the importance of this chapter made it a long wait. Also, this chapter is ridiculously long, over 12,000 words long. So, does that make up for it? *wink wink* 
> 
> Also, over 100 hits, 8 kudos, and 2 comments on the last chapter? You're all amazing, please keep it coming!
> 
> Enjoy :)

New York, 2012

____

_Coulson._

His name filters into my brain as I try and register that he’s actually here, outside my apartment door at close to three in the morning.

My hand hesitates over the doorknob, even though I’ve already undone the chain. I don’t want to see him, and yet I'm eager to at the same time; so much so, it's erased all traces of tiredness. I’m a living paradox, and at the center of that contradiction is him. It’s been nearly six years since I’ve seen him face-to-face, and still the familiar fire of anger and resentment burns within me from only a glance at him.

I don’t know if I will have the self-control to make it through a conversation with him without snapping.

I’ve already opened the door though, and despite the temptation to slam it in his face, I keep it open.

And I stare down the man who at one time I hated with such fierceness that it was beyond my own comprehension. Even now, I know an expression of barely concealed contempt has fallen onto me, my eyes cutting.

“Hello, Olivia.”

Just two words, and I’m transported back to another time. Before the fallout, before the silence, before he handed me the knife I used to slash apart each and every thread that tied the two of us together. To put it in less melodramatic terms, we have a history. One that I would like to be able to forget.

“Call me Grey, everyone else does,” I reply, standing in the doorframe to my apartment, blocking entry.

“Grey, then,” he amends. “Can I come in?”

“If I were to say no, it would make no difference. You’ve come to my apartment at three in the morning, uninvited. You must have a good reason to have made the trip, a good purpose. You aren’t going to let my ‘no’ derail you from accomplishing that.”

He exhales, a slightly amused smile twisting his lips. “You haven’t changed much, have you?”

“No, and I suspect neither have you.”

I step aside, grasping the edges of the door as he walks in. I close it behind me, and for a moment, we’re both quiet. The silence of the apartment is broken apart by the sounds coming from the city streets below; a true New York City silence is still colored with noise. I find it soothing most of the time, but now, it is doing nothing to appease the tension that exists between the two of us.

We go to sit in my living room, and I flick on the light as I enter. We’re seated only a few feet apart from each other, but the distance separating us would take years to span.

As I suspected, the remission of conversation is broken quickly by Coulson. “We’ve found something.”

I perk an eyebrow. “What did you find?”

“When we located Rogers’ plane in the ice a week ago, it wasn’t just him we found. We also found something called the Tesseract.”

“The Tesseract? The thing that powered HYDRA in the forties?” At his nod, I continue. “But, they said it was destroyed by him before he crashed the plane. That’s why no one else ever looked for it.”

“The founders of S.H.I.E.L.D. at the time thought it best to try and discourage anyone from trying to locate it. Besides, Rogers’ craft was missing in action. They didn’t know where it was, let alone anyone else. There was no one to challenge their story, so it was accepted as true.”

“But, now, it’s obvious that it’s not.”

“Exactly. We have it in a secure location now, as the World Security Council is interested in research of it.”

He draws a file from underneath his coat—the man still hasn’t bothered to invest in a briefcase—and passes it to me. My interest is peaked at his choice of wording as I look over the file. Ignoring the CLASSIFIED emblazoned across the front, I flick to the inner contents.

Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. leaps boldly at the top of the papers, issued statements of the World Security Council below. The following papers detail the analysis of the object, along with the names and information of all those recruited to work on the project. Dr. Erik Selvig’s name is listed as the lead scientist, and I recognize it from details Barton had given to me from his time in New Mexico.

Having finished reading through it, I cast him a searching look. “Research doesn’t seem to be the right word. The World Security Council wants to do more than know about the Tesseract, they want to use it. And the kind of weapons they want to develop seem incredibly similar to what was used by HYDRA.”

“The people of Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. have only finished their first week of study on it, and from the small amounts of information they’ve given on it, the Council has already decided to move on to the development stage.”

“Phase Two,” I supply, and deciding to go for the gold, I add. “And in doing so, they’ve decided to scrap the Avengers Initiative.”

Coulson’s face hardens, from irritation at the Council or at me, I’m not sure. “That’s part of the reason why I came here.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

“Despite what the Council has issued, Fury’s decided to ignore it in favor of continuing the efforts of all who’ve worked on the Initiative. Which means that you and Hill are supposed to proceed with contacting Banner, and Stark is to keep his agreement he’s made to you and S.H.I.E.L.D. Basically, the Director has changed nothing of his plans. Instead, he hopes to progress in them.”

He’s answering my question, but his words are empty somehow. He hasn’t told me everything. _Some things never change_ , my inner voice stokes, causing me to shift in my seat to try and mask my irritation.

Adopting the cold, professional voice I use in all debriefings and meetings, I say, “There’s more.”

Coulson nods. “The Tesseract has been giving off fairly consistent readings for the past week. But, last night, the readings changed drastically. The energy output from it peaked, spiking nearly double the amount it had been. And when I looked at the readings it gave off, I noticed a pattern. A similarity.”

He pauses for a second, as if to make sure I understand the full affect of his next words. “The energy readings were identical to your own, only amplified by the Tesseract’s strength.”

I race to connect the dots after he finishes speaking.

The dream. My reach. The power I'd felt.

It had been the Tesseract.

I had felt the Tesseract. I had been drawn to it.

I’m left reeling for the third time in the span of the last ten hours. I traded knowing one answer to having tens of new questions flood me. _Why had I been drawn to it? Why had I lost control? Why had I been able to connect to it as I did?_

And most importantly, _would I connect to it again?_

“Last night, I felt something. I woke up to having nearly destroyed my bedroom in my sleep, and when I reached, I felt something. There'd been something...wrong when I’d been sleeping, my dream had been a nightmare, and it felt...I can't describe it _._ But, when I tried to find what had caused it, it had only made me more confused.”

I’m explaining something I don't understand as best I can to Coulson, who looks like he’s lost despite trying not to be. “I touched it and I ended up slamming against the wall. It had to have been me. I must've caused it.”

Coulson doesn’t speak, and I don’t either, for a few long moments after I finish. Without it needing to be said, my words have weight to them. A meaning exists in them that neither of us understand, except that we know that it’s heavy and nearly suffocating. This will affect more than us, more than S.H.I.E.L.D., for better or for worse. The truth impounds itself onto me: now, more then ever before, I must be careful. For the sake of all those in my life, and maybe those that aren’t.

“What else did you come here for? At three in the morning?” My voice is demanding, harsh in the fragile silence. The phrase _after six years?_ doesn’t need to be said to be understood. I’m still angry at him. Time has not yet healed that wound. So for him to be the one to come here, to show up on my doorstep...

I had asked him to not speak to me, or approach me, or have anything to do with me after it happened. And yet, here he is now, and it has never been more obvious that there was no way he could ever complete what I asked of him. Through S.H.I.E.L.D., stubbornness on his part, or even Jamie, we’ve become a part of each other’s lives. No matter how much both us may want to eradicate that truth. No matter how much distance lays between us.

I would say that I hate him, but it wouldn't be true, even if I’ve tried to make it so.

"I knew that it had been you without needing you to confirm it. And because you’ve become a damn good agent and there's a lot of people who would vouch for that. Barton’s recommendations alone would’ve been enough. And between him, Carter, Caleb, and Fury’s own experience with you—he sent me here. And I came as soon as I could, which means that I am here at three in the morning.”

Pulling another file from under his coat, he hands it to me, and I take it with a firm grasp. Reading the contents within, I ask, “Are you serious?”

“When am I ever not?”

I sign it with barely a moment’s hesitation. Maybe I’m playing into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hands, or maybe I’m too eager than is appropriate, but I sign the page with a steady hand. Vowing myself to a cause that I had worked to create.

The risks of it were a passing thought, barely a consideration. I could never say no, or turn this down. I’d gone my entire life trying to do the right thing, to be of help. I had ambition, I had people that I wanted to safeguard. I wanted to be _good._

And I had power.

More then I was aware of, as I signed my name in black ink.

I looked at my scrawl of a signature; a written testimony of my willingness to fight, no matter the cost to myself. 

* * *

Days pass by, and nothing changes.  
  
Nothing major, really, in comparison to what signing the agreement with Coulson felt like. I’d call it anticlimactic if I had the time to truly think about it. Because, while nothing changed in my personal life and the interactions I had with others, my workload increased.  
  
In addition to the usual assignments I managed, and the interests and leads for the Initiative, Coulson had also given me a direct feed to the advancements of Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S., complete with updates and communications if I had any insight I’d like to give. I expected to be asked to travel to the project site soon because of the uniqueness of my...connection with the Tesseract, but so far, that hadn’t been issued, and so I remained in New York. Fury continued to elude from contact with me, so any attempts to try and get him to tell me information was denied. I had swells of questions. Concerning the project, my new involvement with the Initiative, why he had sent Coulson to talk to me, of all people. Receiving answers would have to wait, but I could be patient. I had no other choice.

Simply put, my schedule was hectic, but everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to be dealing with a similar workload. There was a new energy in everyone I talked to; even the time I spent with Grace or Caleb had underlying tension in it. We were all on edge, and my premonition that something big was coming seemed to be spreading to everyone.

Of course, the newfound energy was partially from excitement, as word of Rogers being "thawed" had spread fast. Somehow, it had not yet been leaked to the media, but I suspected that would soon change, despite the efforts of upper management. They wanted him to be our one-up, our ace. I’ve yet to hear if Fury has approached him to join the Initiative, or if Hill has or Coulson (Coulson would be thrilled if he was assigned Rogers. He probably would ask him to sign his trading cards), but word is that he is a “consultant” to S.H.I.E.L.D., whatever that is supposed to mean. It’s a front, and if I can see that, then I’m sure Rogers can as well.

I have not met him face-to-face. In fact, the only times I’ve seen him in the past week have been in passing, where he’s being led by a familiar agent I’ve met once in the past. Each time, he’s worn a similar look of unease and complacence as she talks to him, like she’s an irritation that won’t go away. Faint circles ringed beneath his eyes, barely visible unless you looked for them. I’d been debriefed simply about Rogers’ current whereabouts and health analysis, as it was thought that I’d need to know information on him for potential future purposes.

My brows had risen derisively at that, considering that as far as Fury was disclosing, S.H.I.E.L.D. intended to leave him in peace. Hill hadn’t gone further into why I was being given an overview of him, and my questions did nothing to change that. I had walked away with yet another file on him, and that night when I looked over the contents of it, I couldn’t help but feel slightly uneasy about doing so. The way his physical—and what they could deduce of his mental status, as he had refused to meet with a psychologist—examination and health was listed so clinically, as well as information on his whereabouts and how he was being “handled” was written, it was almost dehumanizing. Between the files, talk among agents, and undeniable plans concerning him, it seemed like he was being viewed as a tool more than a person. As something to be used to our advantage.

However, I still looked over those papers, despite my initial hesitance. He _was_ an important interest to Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. Therefore, he was an interest to me, and I should be thorough in examining the information I was given. If he did deserve more privacy and say in who knew all of this about him, I didn’t consider it. It was not my job too. I had no connection to Rogers further than the extents of these files. I should not concern myself in matters where I didn’t belong.

I drilled this logical viewpoint into me, not wanting to question why it was suddenly such a challenge to remain neutral in my opinions. He _was_ valuable. If he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. we’d be given a leader, someone who could protect and serve, a true soldier. He would be an Avenger in every sense of the word.

And yet, I couldn’t leave it at that. I betrayed myself, and all of my intentions. I flipped the file shut, feeling guilt rise at his situation. I felt guilt that I knew the detailed information within these pages, that I had intruded upon his thoughts, his mind. I was guilty because I had experienced him crashing into the ocean. I had heard the plane’s groans of protest at the steep descent, I had seen the ocean’s waves coming closer and closer. Each second of those fateful minutes had been strung out before me. And, now I couldn’t forget the panic of those moments, the flashing thoughts of those he remembered when he broke through the water’s edge.

The pain of his sacrifice had been branded into me. The selflessness he had when he chose to make it. It was his final sacrifice; and his willingness to make it even though he realized what it meant was not lost to me. He was an honestly _good_ man.

And so I struggled to let go of my apprehension towards viewing him as just another professional interest. My conscience couldn't view it as right to demand so much from someone who deserved peace.

He’d already fought his battle, his war. What he deserved was a family, a home to return to with the rest of his life waiting for him.

Instead, he had been given an apartment and a gym, in another era, in another life. In doing the heroic thing, he’d been given only losses, rather than a reward. 

I read the file over, only once, before it joined the mess of my desk drawer. I locked the drawer and refused to think more of it. My professionalism had already been compromised by my emotions. And, because of that, I knew I wouldn’t be able to view any insights or assignments regarding Rogers with the needed efficiency I usually operated with.

Being the good guy, you were meant to have good morals. But, your morals or personal opinions were not meant to interfere with your work within S.H.I.E.L.D. Every agent knew that, had been taught that. You were to have an opinion only if it adhered to the needed mold.

Which was why I could never handle or be assigned Rogers' case. I had morals, I had opinions, and I would not be able to adhere to what was expected of me. Others would be able to, but I could not. I was not that talented a liar to hide my arguments, to conceal my sense of right and wrong regarding him.

He had already lost one lifetime from being a soldier, he didn’t deserve to lose another.

And that stubborn belief made it impossible to do as Hill asked.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t complete that assignment.”  
  
“I'm sorry?”  
  
“Don’t play with me, Hill,” I stand my ground, feet firmly planted in front of her desk. Her corner office is light and airy, and obsessively organized. “I know you heard what I said.”  
  
“I’m your superior, Grey. This isn't an optional assignment,” she counters, a twitch in her left eye shattering her otherwise stony appearance. I know it isn’t optional; it’s an order. One that I am going to refuse.  
  
“I understand that, but I am not the right person to take on his case or approach him. I know my limits and I know that I would not be able to keep only professional interests in mind concerning him. Another agent would be far better suited for it.”  
  
“You of all people should be invested in trying to advance the Initiative, Grey, and should want to be as involved as possible. Not only have you worked on securing this project for the last six months, but you’ve been made very well aware of how valuable the Captain would be to us if he were to join. Besides, you’ve been involved in recruiting almost every candidate for it since the Initiative’s creation. If you don’t think you can handle this assignment, it raises many red flags for your further involvement in the Initiative itself.”

From the meaningful look in her eye, and the way she’s holding herself, it’s evident she knows of my recruitment. Maybe she knew I was a potential candidate for the project far longer than she’s letting on. It seemed that everyone besides myself had considered it; how many others had interest in me that I wasn’t aware of?  
  
I refocus, turning a steady eye to Hill. “I’m not denying that, for appearances, this decision doesn’t serve me well. But, with all due respect, I know myself better than you or Fury or anyone else does. And I know that I won’t be able to take on Rogers’ case and remain neutral in it. I don’t agree with Fury’s tactics. Rogers has barely been awake for a week, and you want me to approach him? Anyone would deserve more time to adjust and try to create some semblance of a life, most of all him. I know that better than any other agent here.

“I would be biased because of my knowledge, and that would make me less competent in doing my job and handling his case. I would not be able to carry out S.H.I.E.L.D.’s interests as well as Fury wants them to be. Therefore, you need to assign him to someone else.”  
  
Hill studies me, leaning forward on her elbows, which are resting atop her desk. Her brows furrow, her mouth set in a straight line. When she speaks again, her voice has taken on a softer tone then before. A more personal one. “You care about what happens regarding him, that much is evident. Even if it isn’t necessarily a good thing considering the nature of your job. But, ignoring that, your further interest in Rogers would make you the best agent for handling his case and recruitment. Don’t mistake your concern for him as a weakness.”

I continue to look her straight in the eye, but it’s proving harder now. I don’t agree with her. She and I have always gotten along because of our logical viewpoint on things. I want to believe I’m the one with the level head in this. My concern for him is definitely a weakness; having personal stake in any assignment is a weakness. I can’t afford to make a mistake that would potentially cause harm to fall on someone. 

That’s most of the reason behind my stand, but there’s also another, which has permanently lodged itself into my mind. One that I voice. 

“I can’t ask him to join another war,” I answer, my voice sincere. “Not when he’s already fought his.”  
  
Hill sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’s frustrated, but I’m stubborn, and that will outmatch her. “Banner will need to be approached soon. Will you be available for that in a week or so?”

“Of course,” I reply, and then add half-sarcastically, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

A verbal confirmation I’ve been dismissed is not needed. I turn and pivot on my heel, a standoff reached.

I’ll make up whatever my refusal cost me, but I won’t be guilty for my decision. I know I made the right decision, even if she would disagree.

_I did the right thing._

_Isn’t that the point of all this?_

* * *

It’s been seven days.

Only one week, and yet, it’s felt like one of the longest weeks in his entire life.

On day one, Agent West had taken him to what was his place. They’d driven through the streets of New York, her going on and on about this and that while he’d looked out the window, taking it all in. Their driver had stopped at a building roughly twenty minutes away from S.H.I.E.L.D.

Walking inside of the building, the immediate differences of its interior to everywhere else he’d seen had momentarily stunned him.

It looked like the 1940s, but slightly to the left. The gym—which was on the first floor—was bedecked in red, white, and blue decorations. A ring to spar in was off to the side, punching bags lining it. The apartment's decor upstairs was similar. The authenticity of the furniture, wall decorations, and the light fixtures down to the hardwood floors, was unquestionable. It reminded him of “back in his day” and if he didn’t question it, he’d almost believe that it was a place that time and the modern world hadn’t touched for seventy years.

Almost was the key word.

It felt fake. Like a theatre, ready for whoever occupied it to read off a script. If S.H.I.E.L.D.’s goal was to make him feel like he was back in the 40s, then they had succeeded. Because walking into what West insisted was _his_ place, Steve felt exactly like he was right back in another USO tour and this was simply the newest part of his act.

“Do you like it?” West asked, standing off to the side while he took it all in.

“It’s fine.”

On day two, Steve had attempted to figure out some parts of his apartment. He hadn’t slept more than an hour or two the night prior—his mind too busy repeating the contents of those God-forsaken files shoved into his nightstand—and he blamed the lack of sleep for why he was unable to figure out what West had told him was a microwave.

After several hours of messing with the microwave, the television set, and the silver thing that was supposedly a computer (whatever that meant), he’d finally given up trying to understand them. Frustration moved him to rub the back of his neck harshly as he fixed himself a sandwich from the well-stocked kitchen.

The apartment itself was big. It was easily twice the size of the apartment he’d had back in Brooklyn, with an open floor plan, spacious kitchen, and two bedrooms and baths. The empty space around him was mocking. When the silence of it all became too loud to bear, he’d turned on the retro-styled radio and let a familiar crooning voice fill the rooms. The mix of old and new conventions in the apartment was a constant reminder that while he wasn’t back in his time, he wasn’t fully in this one either. An odd midpoint, and Steve was stuck in the center of it.

That night, he fought sleep, busying himself with anything he could find to do. He didn’t venture outside or to the gym yet, and no one had contacted him. He battled with his mind to keep it void of anything he didn’t want to think of.

It was an exhausting task.

Day three, after a long night of doing essentially nothing, he switched on the television set. A news channel appeared, and he absorbed the media as he drank several cups of strong coffee. Coffee was such a rarity overseas, and during the Depression beforehand, he didn’t have money to waste on trivial things. So, to have it now and in such abundance, he eagerly enjoyed the luxury. 

It worked to keep him awake and alert as the newscaster told of a car accident in one place, a shooting in another. And then, good news! The forecast is looking to be sunny with a slight chance of rain late in the evening.

Steve considered briefly about going out, maybe going downstairs to the gym, or venturing into the city even. He would have to get reacquainted with NYC if he was going to live in it once again. The thought though drained him of any energy the coffee had given, and he felt more exhausted then he had before.

He shut off the news after that.

That afternoon, he’d cleaned his already spotless apartment so thoroughly his Ma would’ve been proud. His productivity was satisfying. Doing anything was satisfying, as it provided a distraction. However, shortly after he’d finished and was at a loss of things to do, he succumbed to his thoughts and began to think of all those he’d purposefully pushed out of mind. It felt like a punishment, making himself open and read through the files again, but he couldn’t stop himself. In a way, he felt like he deserved it.

After all, isn’t it the duty of those that survived war to remember those who didn’t?

It didn’t matter that most of these people hadn’t died on battlegrounds. They were still gone. And he was the only survivor.

And so, he read them all through. And again, and again.

He lingered on the photo of Peggy, his favorite girl.

That night, he lost another battle and fell asleep, the files still in his grasp. He’d read them obsessively throughout the afternoon, forgetting to make dinner or do much of anything else. He read them over and over, even though he’d already memorized every word from the first time through.

And despite the pressure building in his head and the sick feeling his stomach, Steve still felt numb to it all. He could believe what he was reading, he just didn’t want to.

When he woke up that night, it was to a scream stuck in his throat and a heart racing so badly he was afraid he might go into cardiac arrest. His bedroom was morphing into places he didn’t ever want to return to, flickering from reality to places tinted red with blood.

Bullets were still whizzing past his ears as he stumbled into his adjoined bathroom and was sick.

Day four began with him waking up on his bathroom floor, a headache pounding behind his temples. He wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or blacked out the night prior, but his mind had been peaceful after he'd fallen asleep for a second time, which he was grateful for.

Steve had only just made a cup of coffee when his doorbell rang. When he opened it, he found Agent West standing outside, a cheery smile and a look of purpose on her face.

“Good morning, Captain Rogers.”

She came to ask him to come with her to S.H.I.E.L.D. to clear a few things up. Unsure of the specifics of what that meant, Steve figured he didn’t have any reason to refuse, and got ready.

He was determined to look put together, to erase any evidence from his appearance of what had happened the night before. It was nothing, and he would make sure it stayed that way. 

After changing into an outfit similar to what he used to wear before the war—only this time the measurements were very different—he left with West, deciding not to question who had picked out the clothes in his closet and why they were so different to what everyone else wore.

West took him to back to the same building he’d woken up in four days prior. He followed her direction as she led him to several meetings with various ones within S.H.I.E.L.D. He shook hands and was introduced to high level agents, operators that ran the scenes behind missions, staff personnel, and S.T.R.I.K.E. teams. While none of the people he met left too much of an impression, the feeling of their eyes on him definitely did.

Having been enhanced for a few years (only a few years, that is, to him), he still hadn't managed to become comfortable with the attention it brought. It didn’t matter why he was receiving it, or who was giving it to him, it made him uneasy. Steve could lead armies into battle, but to have masses of people staring at him? That he didn't know how to handle. 

It was a relief when West finally took him to Fury’s—the Director’s—office. He knew this wasn’t just a social call—this had been leading up to something. A question, an offer. There had to be reason why he was being introduced to ones of authority within S.H.I.E.L.D., and why everyone he’d met had unfailingly called him ‘Captain' instead of his name.

Unsurprisingly, Fury did make him an offer. For a job as a consultant within S.H.I.E.L.D. Keeping his face carefully guarded, he listened and asked various questions about what the job entailed. With more information, he was able to understand all he needed.

It was a joke.

They didn’t want him as an impassive, benched “consultant”, but they didn’t want to divulge their true intentions for him yet. This was a front, another act for him to play his part dutifully in. After realizing this, Steve figured he might as well make this arrangement advantageous to him and took the opportunity to interject his terms.

“If I’m going to be a consultant, then I’m going to need full access to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s data, information, files, all of it. I’m going to need full clearance.”

Fury raised a brow, “Until the need for you to act is here, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“I disagree. If I’m going to trust you and do my job to the best of my abilities, I’m going to need all the information I can obtain. I need to know what S.H.I.E.L.D. is,” Steve leaned forward in his seat, meeting the Director’s eye. “You want me to act as a consultant, right? How can I be of help if I know next to nothing about who I’m helping?”

That had gotten him somewhere, and in the next hour, he’d gained clearance to intel locked away and an encrypted transfer of data to the computer in his apartment. He would have to better familiarize himself with the machine, now that he had a good incentive. Steve wasn’t sure if they’d truly given him everything he’d wanted, but it was better then what he’d had before, so he’d take it. For now.

Day four was shaping out to be a good one, and it became even more so when West had given him means of transportation.

He’d smiled when he’d seen the motorbike. Full-out grinned when he rode it to the—no, his—apartment.

The day had been distracting, fulfilling almost, and it was having something to do that he craved most. He’d been able to keep his mind focused elsewhere, giving him a reprieve from the first three days’ struggles.

Steve had truly thought that he was going to be okay once he got home. He had something to do; looking at what S.H.I.E.L.D. was would be time-consuming. That and coffee throughout the night should keep him awake and busy. He would be fine.

That all went to hell when he’d closed his apartment’s door behind him.

He wasn’t sure what it had been that started it. Maybe it was the silence that greeted him, the complete stillness of the apartment. Or maybe it was the fact that besides the abandoned mug half-full of coffee from that morning, there was no other signs of life. There was barely any evidence that this place was lived in, and this was where he was supposed to call home?

This wasn’t home.

But, maybe what really did it was what West had given him before he’d left S.H.I.E.L.D.

Staring down at the cellphone in his hand, he remembered what she’d told him it was for.

“There’s numbers entered inside of it, for you to call if you need to. Just go into your contacts, and you’ll see them listed. Mine’s there. You can also download games, music, movies on it too, if you want,” she’d explained, giving him a brief run-through of the device. He had the “charger cord” in his other pocket, which she told him to use to plug his phone it, so it had power.

And desperate to fill the silence, the stillness, to talk to _someone_ , he’d turned on his phone and went into his contacts like she’d shown him.

He found two names staring back at him.

His hand clenched around the phone when he read “Agent West” and “Nick Fury” listed.

Two names. He had two names. Two people to call.

And somehow, he doubted that neither of them would be very receptive to his call when he told them his reason for it was that he couldn’t stand the silence.

Steve had thrown the phone across the room before he knew what he was doing. He heard the sound of it smashing against the wall like an echo, like he wasn’t really there to hear it. Like he was somewhere else.

So, he found something else to throw. The sitting coffee mug, a plate stacked away. A lamp. Anything to create noise, to block out the sounds exploding within his head.

The silence was better than the sounds. He wanted the silence back. He craved it now.

With each thing he threw, each piece of glass that shattered against the wall, he remembered all of them more and more. Nothing could stop him from remembering now, nothing could stop him from feeling the loss.

He couldn’t stop it. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t stop it. And destroying his apartment couldn’t either.

Steve wasn’t numb anymore. Now, it was all he could do to feel.

And he wanted it to _stop_.

So, he continued raging, desperate and wild. He couldn't control himself, he couldn't stop. 

And he didn’t stop until he had nothing else to throw, until everything breakable laid broken and in shards on the floor. Until there was nothing left but him and the silence.

That’s when the numbness that had turned to anger turned to grief.

And it washed over him, submerging him until he wasn’t sure his head was still above water. Until he wasn’t sure if he cared if it was or wasn’t.

Day five, he woke up on his kitchen’s floor, still sitting with his head pressed into his knees.

It was silent again, but it was softer now. Not impounding or suffocating.

He’d take it.

Despite knowing he should clean up his place, or begin to comb through the information now stored safely in his computer, he was jumpy and anxious. He wanted to move, to escape.

So, after changing clothes and quickly getting ready in his bathroom (and ignoring the red that rimmed his eyes), he went downstairs and used his gym for the first time.

Steve knew the serum had turned him into a super-soldier, had enhanced his body to peak physical condition, but even he was amazed out how long he was able to endure beating at punching bags. He dutifully switched them out if he busted one of them open or knocked them down from where they were suspended on the ceiling. He continued, and in doing so, he found his release.

If he focused on his punches, and his punches alone, he was able to forget everything else. He lost himself in the rhythm, at the eventual burn that erupted behind his shoulder blades and up his arms and continued. On and on and on.

By the time he finally quit that night, he was exhausted, and cramps sprung painfully from his stomach, reminding him that he couldn’t say when he’d last eaten.

He ate a handful of chips before he collapsed into bed, too tired to think of anything, let alone clean up his mess from the day before.

Day six was much like day five. He couldn’t say when he woke up, but he guessed it had been early, for when he’d caught a glimpse of his reflection in his bathroom mirror, the rings under his eyes had darkened. He must not have slept long, even if it had been uninterrupted.

Ten minutes after he’d woken up, he’d went down to the gym and repeated what he’d done yesterday. Hours later, after the sun had already sunk below the horizon, Steve retreated back upstairs. This time, despite the wraps protecting them, his knuckles had burst open. But then again, so had a lot of bags.

He knew he should shower, but he was so tired, and the idea of it was exhausting. He was about to collapse into bed when he remembered that he had to eat. He hadn’t paid attention to the cramps throughout the day, despite them being stronger than the day before.

Steve had grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter from the kitchen, but when he went for a plate to make a sandwich on, he remembered his actions two days before. The evidence of it still rested feet away.

He really had to clean that up.

That night, right before falling asleep and after hoping that it would be a peaceful rest, he asked himself if this was still living. This didn’t feel like life. Life was loud, and busy, and full of people.

This wasn’t life.

This was only existing.

Then his stomach cramped again, and he knew he should’ve eaten more.

Today is day seven.

It hadn’t been a peaceful night. But, there was nothing he could do to change that now, so he tried to get ready—ignoring the slight off-ness of the atmosphere around him. Steve prepared himself a cup of coffee—he found a collection of paper cups in the pantry to use—and disregarded how he jumped slightly when the coffee-machine beeped. His hand was at the back of his neck as he stood looking out the window, observing all the traffic and people below. They all looked so purposeful, so ordinary. So in place. They were headed somewhere, to someone. The silence began to strengthen in intensity, and he knew he had to get out.

He would clean up his apartment and actually do something of use in the afternoon. Right now, all that mattered was getting to the gym, and escaping. He felt his chest tighten, his breath seemed trapped. Steve needed to get to the gym, to punch the bags, to control himself. To control what was happening.

Then he’d be okay. He would be okay. He would make sure of it.

Rushing into the gym, he crossed the room in a span of seconds, and landed his first punch into the fleshy red bag.

It worked, for a while. He tried to focus on the punches, rapid and constant. They weren’t as balanced as they’d been before, neither were they as precise. But, he didn’t care. He was hitting the bag, he was in control, of himself and the things around him.

Steve punched the bag another time and it knocked from the ceiling, falling loudly to the floor.

This was okay, he would just get another bag. He could do that, this was fine. He was fine, everything was fine.

He moved to do just that, and stumbled, feeling suddenly dizzy.

He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were clenched shut. When he opened them, he was elsewhere. The scene before him was confusing, a collage of the past. It transformed from trenches, to a HYDRA facility, to that bedamned train, to everywhere he didn’t want to be. He was everywhere except where he actually was.

Steve thought at first that he was somehow dreaming, because when he had remembered these things before, he’d wake up eventually. But after seconds passed and there was still the panic that was coiling and choking him, he knew he had to be awake, and that he was back there. He was back in the war, and he had to do his part. If HYDRA were to get to him or his men—

“Hello?”

The voice was distant. That voice didn’t belong here, in a war. But, it was familiar. Where had he heard it before?

“Rogers, are you okay?”

That wasn’t apart of war, that voice. That wasn’t what he remembered. She didn’t belong there. She wasn’t there, and neither was he.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

Steve rubbed a hand over his neck and then his eyes, clearing away the war. Erasing it from him. He couldn’t be at war. No, he was in his gym. He returned back to the present, struggling to adapt to the change. But, he wasn't alone. 

Someone was with him.

“Steve, you can nod or shake your head if you can’t talk right now,” she supplied, and when he looked towards the voice’s source, there stood that woman.

The one from the square.

And she, of all the damn people in the world, had seen him go through… _that_.

He felt his face warm with humiliation. No one was meant to see that. No one should see that.

Meeting her eyes, he ignored the concern in them. And then he asked in a tone so rude he was sure his Ma was turning over in her grave at him using it at a lady, “What do you want?”

It was later that he would realize that she was the first person he’d spoken too since waking that had called him Steve.

* * *

In full disclosure, I had—up till today—stayed my distance from Rogers and his case. Entirely, in fact, leaving it to whoever else was assigned to him. I’d known that another agent, one named West, had been the one to give him his apartment and gym and a few doctors and other personnel had assisted him as well. Coulson was also in the mix, but the specifics of his involvement hadn't been disclosed to me. 

Having a relative calm of knowing that he and his case would be taken care of by someone else (Hill was much too professional to let it be otherwise), I settled back into my normal routine. Three days pass, and in that time I handled various smaller assignments in close locations, completed my mandatory firearms training for the month, and managed other interests. The Initiative, and the constant stream of legal paperwork and tasks in connection with it, was time-consuming. So much so, that one night, I had slept at the office. I’d woken up slumped over the top of my desk, Caleb staring amusedly down at me as he offered me a cup of coffee in greeting.

It was nearing a full week since Coulson had visited. Hill and I had maintained a professional politeness, but it was evident that she was still a bit agitated from our conversation in her office. Coincidentally, I received no further information on how Rogers was being handled or who had taken the offer that had originally been extended to me.

However, with an upcoming trip to meet Dr. Bruce Banner and a slew of other work-related tasks, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. And, if I’m being honest, my responsibilities had taken up precedence in my mind so much that I had forgotten about Rogers.

He was far from thought or consideration, and would’ve stayed that way, had I not decided to ask Grace if she wanted coffee this morning.

I’d done an all-nighter, and my head was fuzzy with lack of sleep, something that a latte was sure to fix. That, and the fact that I hadn’t been able to see my friend for almost a week’s time, made me take the short elevator ride down a level to her floor.

Grace was a field agent like me, but she had originally graduated from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Academy of Science and Technology. I didn’t know the specifics of how she’d taken up a field operative’s job coming from that academy, but I’d never given it much thought. Every once in a while, when she wasn’t on assignment in the field, she would be pulled behind a monitor to work her other area of expertise.

She’d mentioned in passing that she would be at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters for a while, working on an assignment that dealt with security. I’d been distracted and had nodded my reply while I hastily ate a snack I’d found in a break room.

Now, walking down the hallway to where the technology section of HQ was located, I searched for the office that someone had directed me to when I asked for Agent Peters.

I slid my keycard across the scanner outside the room—I had clearance to all of the rooms and offices within the building, excluding only Fury’s—and went inside.

I first noticed that the room was empty. Grace wasn’t in here for whatever reason, the only noise coming from the faint whirring from the many monitors and computers. The lighting was dim, maybe to help whoever was in the room to focus on what was being displayed on the screens.

I walked closer to her desk and placed a hand on the back of her rolling chair. I leaned forward to better see what was on the screens, squinting slightly at the brightness of them.

When I saw what they were showing, I’d wished I hadn’t come up here. I wished I hadn’t seen it.

Because it made everything I’d told Hill meaningless. The fact that I wasn’t qualified to be involved meant nothing anymore.

There was nothing that could stop me from being involved now.

On the screens, and there was so many, was a live feed. The live feed took up most of the monitors, but on a few screens, I discovered that they held recordings that could be reviewed and were playing on a loop. Glancing down at the top of her desk, I saw notes. Dates were written in the headings, bullet points and particular sections marked.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had bugged Rogers’ building.

After my mouth had remained gaping at the video feed alone, I soon found that I could allow audio to play as well.

My hand was biting into the back of her chair so hard that when I removed it, there was an indent left on the plastic structure.

I was angry, so angry, as I glanced back and forth at the varying video feeds. One screen was dated with yesterday’s date, another with the day before. It went all the way back to the first night West had delivered him to his place.

With each second I studied the feed displayed, I felt more and more like I was doing something wrong. Something shady. I was not supposed to see this. No one was.

Why did I always feel guilt when it came to Rogers?

My eyes flickered across one monitor, the recording dating three days prior. The date was the same to the one written on the heading of the notebook sheet below; one page in particular that was noted and marked more then the others.

The angle of the video camera obscured me from seeing most of Rogers. Instead, I saw in full view each of the items that hit and shattered against the wall. Over and over until the aftermath of it laid broken on the ground. I couldn’t see him, and I was grateful for it.

I was even more grateful that I didn't allow audio.

“Olivia?”

I turned at Grace’s voice, the soft click of the door closing behind her. My fists were clenched so tightly I thought I would break skin.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice lethally calm.

“I-I was going to tell you, but Hill said not to tell many yet—”

“I do not care about why you did not tell me. The only thing I care about right now is why his apartment is bugged in the first place.”

I’m staring her down, my spine straight as I stand at my full height. I see her face twitch slightly. I don’t move from where I stand and neither does she.

She sighs, diverting her eyes. “They wanted to monitor him. They thought it best to give him space—”

“This is not giving him ‘space.’ This is violating his privacy. This is unbelievable.” My words are shaking with anger and I see Grace take a small, hesitant step back.

“They weren’t sure how to handle this situation, and until they figured it out more and knew more about him, they thought it would be best to watch him.”

“And so you set up cameras? So, you could take notes? So, you could _study_ him?” I scoff, gesturing to her notebooks. “He isn’t some specimen in a lab, Grace, he’s a damn _person_!”

I can’t bear to be in the same room with her anymore. If I stay, I may do or say something I’ll forget. Anger clouds judgement, and I am boiling over with the emotion.

I move to leave the room in a few long strides. She’s moved out of the way to let me pass. Just as my hand touches the door handle, she asks, “Where are you going?”

“To do something about this. I’m sure I’ll do a better job at ‘handling this situation’ then you are,” I spit.

I’m livid as I walk down the hallway, into the elevator, and to Hill’s office level. My face is drawn, residual fury settling in my eyes. The people that I pass don’t meet my gaze and move out my way. I barely give them any notice.

When I reach the hallway where Hill’s office is located, I force myself to stop before going in. If I go in angry and biting, like an unleashed dog, I won’t be doing myself or him any favors. I need to think rationally, logically. I need to think as an agent.

It takes a few deep breaths, but eventually I’ve calmed enough to enter her office. She’s behind her desk, looking intently at a holo-screen. She glimpses at me for a second before my intent for being here registers.

“What is it, Grey?”

“I need to talk to you about Rogers.”

* * *

The building is inconspicuous. Located in a block that was edging into the outskirts of New York City, it looks like any other. No one would guess that an American hero was living in it. Especially not one that’s been supposedly dead for seventy years.

I stand looking at the brick building from the sidewalk across from it. I take a breath, and then move swiftly across the street.

I have officially accepted Steve Rogers as an assignment. The assignment includes, and is not limited to, securing him as a member of the Avengers Initiative, ensuring he is a stable addition for all intents and purposes of S.H.I.E.L.D., and beyond.

I have to give it to Hill, she didn’t look smug at all when I asked her for permission to be given the assignment. She had made it throughout the conversation with stoic professionalism. I, on the other hand, had inwardly been kicking myself while simultaneously sticking my foot in my mouth.

It’s ironic. I’d gone from promising myself to never interfere or have anything to do with the man, to asking to oversee him and his case in full.

Hopefully, our second time meeting each other would be better than the first.

Guilt stirs in my stomach at the memory, but I quickly suppress it.

I was Agent Olivia Grey. I had a job to do. The means of how and why I’d asked for this job did not matter.

And neither did the thought that, somehow, I had a personal stake in what happened to Rogers.

When I entered the building, I was met with what looked to be a set from a film in the 40s. Down to the smallest detail, it looked like it was every bit from early in the last century. They didn’t downplay the patriotism either. Red, white, and blue was the key colors within the room, accenting the soft lighting.

I could hear something coming from farther in the gym. Walking towards the sound, I recognized it as heavy breathing, along with the sound of punches—hard punches. They sounded painful.

And they looked even more so, when I saw that Rogers was hitting the bag without gloves or wraps. Like he wasn't concerned at all about potentially hurting himself. 

Then the bag was suddenly falling to the ground, having come unattached from the ceiling. I don't talk as I watch him for a moment. Something was off about him, something was wrong.

I could see him begin to breathe heavier then he’d been when he was hitting the bag; heaving like he couldn’t get air in his lungs. He made a step forward before stumbling slightly, catching himself. I couldn’t see his face and yet the fact that he was panicked was evident. Steve took another harsh, ragged breath before he seemed to stop breathing at all.

“Hello?” I called. Instinct was telling me to do something, anything.

He turned toward me slightly, but his back was to me still. As I got nearer, the sheer size of him caused me to be taken aback. His appearance hadn’t been a consideration when I was first chasing him, and seeing him from a distance didn’t give me an accurate perspective. 

“Rogers, are you okay?”

I was scarcely ten feet away now. I could see him in full, see his muscular frame taught beneath his t-shirt, and yet the only thing running through my mind was how still he was holding himself. He looked frozen in place, so unmoving he looked like he couldn't be alive. 

It took me a few more cautious steps to notice the tremor in his hands.

“Do you need me to call someone?”

Was this a flashback? An…episode? Was that what they called it?

I didn’t know nearly enough about how to help him, but talking to someone who he trusted would help, right? A professional, somehow who was much more qualified to do this.

His hand rubbed over the back of his neck and then over his eyes and face. Steve was turning towards me. His hand still covered his face and a frantic energy was emanating from him. I wanted to approach him, to provide comfort. But, I wasn’t sure if he even knew I was there with him, and if he did, if he would want me to come closer.

“Steve, you can nod or shake your head if you can’t talk right now.”

He finally looks me in the face at hearing his name. I wonder when’s the last time someone’s called him by it, instead of the usual ‘Captain’ or ‘Rogers.’

His eyes look as if he’s somewhere else, but after a moment, whatever was clouding them leaves and is quickly replaced by a guarded front. His lips set into a straight line and I realize he’s angry at me. A second later, I notice a flaming red begin to creep up his neck.

“What do you want?” He asks sharply.

Excellent, barely concealed contempt. “My name’s Olivia Grey, I’m an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I remember you,” he replies, moving over to where the punching bag lays on the floor.

“Well, with an introduction like ours, I would be hard to forget.

With seemingly little effort, he’s swung the bag over his shoulder, and is walking towards the back of the gym. Having no other option, I follow him. I stay a few feet apart from him; I don't want to spook or alarm him. He still seems anxious.

“You didn’t answer my question, Agent Grey,” Steve reminds. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

He scoffs, the sound harsh against the silence of the room. “I find that hard to believe. West and everyone else who’s met with me have always had a common goal.” He throws the bag from off his shoulder against the back wall, where a collection of other broken or busted bags lay. A poster of Uncle Sam is placed on the wall, one finger pointing out. “They all want me to do something for them.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not Agent West or someone else. Because, I want nothing from you. That’s not why I’m here. In fact, if you’d prefer to not have contact with West anymore, I can arrange that.”

“Why? So, I contact you instead?” He remarks, doubting. Untrusting. I don’t blame him. I notice a muscle going off in his jaw, and he still seems on edge. I don't know if my being here is making that worse.

“So, you can contact whoever you want. Inside or outside S.H.I.E.L.D,” I answer, looking him in the eye. I’m being honest, but I don’t know if he can see that.

He pauses. He looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He glances away before stepping around me and moving in the direction towards the staircase.

I bite back a sigh, following him again. “All I need is five minutes of your time. That’s it, and if you don’t want to give me that today, then I’ll come back tomorrow. Or whenever suits you. This isn’t me demanding anything. This is me trying to help you.”

I’m on the staircase as I say this, a few paces behind him. He spins around to face me so fast I nearly lose my balance on the step I was about to climb. We’re inches apart; sweat and the damp smell of someone who hasn’t showered in a few days comes from him. Anger burns in his eyes. “ _You_ help _me_? Like you did the last time we met? Because, let me tell you, ‘helpful' is not the word I would've described you as.”

I press down the shame building, reminding myself of my motive, of why I’m here. “I apologize for my actions. I didn’t know who you were. All I knew was I had been told there was a target that had escaped custody. It was my job to stop you from getting further. If I’d known who I was chasing, and why you were with S.H.I.E.L.D., I wouldn’t have done what I had.

“However, I do not apologize for doing my job. Do not expect me to do so. I apologize for the way I stopped you, not for having done it.”

“That’s why you’re here now too, isn’t it? To do your job? Then be decent enough to be honest with me,” Steve says, his eyes still angry. Something else is in them too, and if I let myself wonder about it, I'd say it was fear. If this were any other person, or other any assignment, I’d be preparing my defenses. Anger and fear never pair well. 

“Fine. You want honesty? I’m here because I’ve been given you as an assignment. To handle your case. I’m taking over for West, and for all the others who’ve been assigned you so far. I’m here to my job, and to try and be able to do it well,” I answer, keeping my voice level despite the edge building in it. I feel the tension in the room like it’s a tangible thing. “And despite what you may think, that doesn’t make me your enemy. You may be an assignment, but that doesn’t mean I do not want to help you as a person beyond that.”

I notice out of the corner of my eye his fists clenching and unclenching, a slight shake still in them. At further look, I notice streaks of blood dripping from where his skin’s broken open. “You’re bleeding.”

Steve shifts his eyes from mine to his hands, like he’s just now noticing it.

“You always box without wraps, Rogers?” I’m trying to diffuse the situation, but a lingering sense of apprehension remains. I feel like I’m waiting for an explosive to detonate, for it to consume us both in the flames.

“It’ll heal,” he says, off-handedly.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t painful.”

He meets my eyes again. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence grows.

He shifts his stance. “You’re not going to leave until you accomplish what you came for.”

“If you let me, that is. However, I will eventually complete my objective, so I suggest letting me be done with it now, rather than later.”

“Fine,” he concedes, a sense of defeat in his words. We walk up the stairs and to the second level. I’m still walking behind him, rather than aside, as we enter his apartment.

If the downstairs looked like a movie set, then his apartment looks like a propaganda poster come to life. This looks like the home of Captain America, not Steve Rogers.

“Damn, they really went all out on the red, white, and blue,” I remark, closing the door behind me. I glance around the room, taking in the kitchen off to the side and the living room straight ahead. Wide windows take up almost an entire wall, but I see that he’s drawn the curtains shut except for a small section on the one side.

“Yeah, they did.”

Steve’s gone into the kitchen, and I can see him messing with a coffee maker. He rubs a hand across his face again, and I notice just how deep the bags under his eyes are. The skin is purple, and a few days’ worth of stubble is across his jaw. He hasn’t showered in the last day or so, that’s apparent, and I wonder when he’s eaten a full meal last. He seems worn down, and for me to say that about a super soldier, it means something.

“You can redecorate if you want. I’m sure you’ve been told your salary. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s generous, I’ll give them that.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. will be generous when I do the job they really want me to do,” he counters, looking up at me again. A hint of bitterness is his eyes, a sharpness. “But, you would know that. If you’ve been assigned me as a case.”

I feel my skin prickle, the apprehension increased tenfold. “I’m not here to start a fight with you, Rogers.”

“No, but you’re here for something. And you can’t deny what I just said, either. If they want me to head up a team, to be Captain again, then tell me. You want to help me? Then tell me the truth,” he’s moving closer. I stand my ground.

His eyes are burning. I had thought my biggest challenge for completing this assignment would be my compromised viewpoint of Rogers. I didn’t consider how strong his anger would be against S.H.I.E.L.D., against me. I didn’t think the real challenge would be his hatred towards me.

“You’re not wrong. S.H.I.E.L.D. does want you to join them for something much larger then ‘consultant.’ And my assignment is to get you to join, to agree to it. That’s why they sent me. But, the reason that _I’m_ here is to give you options, choices. Choices that West or those prior to me would not give you,” I explain. “You can hate me all you want. In fact, if it’s of help to you to direct your anger at your situation towards me, then go ahead. You deserve to be angry with me, to carry some resentment of how I first treated you. And, hell, if you don’t deserve to be angry at what all you’ve been put through…”

I shake my head now, a bark of a laugh coming out. I can’t comprehend what all he’s lost, what all he’s gone through. I don’t know how to fix something I can’t understand. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have this assignment, if I don’t know what to do.

Looking at it in black-and-white, the assignment is simple. Get Rogers to join, make sure his condition is stable, and make sure it stays that way from here on out. But, in every shade of grey between, the extents of what that entails is evident. He needs someone that can help him through his grief and shock, and if the incident downstairs was any indication, issues beyond that. He needs help, and I can’t be the one to give it to him. He wouldn’t let me, and there’s others that would do a much better job of it than me anyways. He’s angry, grieving, and he’s been placed in a world that he doesn’t know. Anyone, but especially him, would deserve to be treated as a person in addition to an assignment. And if being treated like a person means giving him someone that he can direct his grief and anger at, then I can be that person.

He needs someone. Even if it's me. Even if I'm someone he can only hate. 

“I’m not here to force you to join, but to first make sure you are in a good enough place mentally and physically to join S.H.I.E.L.D. in the position they want. And, right now, I’m not sure if you are, Rogers.” My voice is softer now, having lost the edge. He towers over me still, and I watch him hesitate before saying something. His face is blank, but his eyes…they are a different story entirely.

“You don't know anything about me,” he says, his voice tense and angry and so, so sad, all at once. I feel something stir in my chest at the sound of it. 

“That isn’t true,” I reply simply. But, the undertones in my words let him know all he needs, and when he makes the connection, his hand is at his neck immediately. I don’t know if he heard my regret. I don’t know if he’ll ever know how much I regret it. How much I want to take back what I know. What I did.

He doesn’t stand down, and when he meets my eye again, I see a resignation in them as he delivers his final blow. “And you still call yourself a good person?”

I try to contain my flinch, my fists curling from the effort. He struck a nerve, and by the look on his face, he knows it. He doesn’t look smug or satisfied at this knowledge though. Instead, he looks tired. He looks exhausted, and so…human. And I'm not angry at him, for saying it. Somehow, I can't be. 

Swallowing, I say, “That’s up for debate.”

I move to go to the door, turning back to look at him. He has his face to the section of window that isn’t covered. “There’s three hidden cameras in here. Two downstairs. There’s audio too. You don’t have to think I’m a good person. But, you should know that I’m an honest one. And you wanted honesty, right?”

* * *

Nick Fury stood behind a monitor, everything about his body language screaming the word ‘unsettled.'

Clint read this, and catalogued it, trying to find the source of his boss’ unease. Upon walking further into the makeshift office Fury had secured in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s many facilities, the archer looked up at the various wide holo-screens Nick stood in front of. And making sense of the information the screens displayed, the reason for Fury’s tension became evident.

The screens read off the consistently spiking levels of Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S.’s subject, and even with only a fundamental knowledge of physics and energy, it was obvious that the Tesseract held immense power. And immense potential for weapons, which S.H.I.E.L.D. had cleared the production of. Development of such weapons was already underway. However, the specifics of such weapons weren’t known to him.

But, it wasn’t the Tesseract’s readings that was creating the anxiousness in the room. No, it was the other half of the information displayed, detailing in technical terms the makeups of one Olivia Grey’s genetics. Complete with DNA analysis and study, bloodwork, and a comprehensive look into her physical condition, a conclusion had been drawn to everyone who viewed them.

Her genetics made no scientific sense whatsoever.

Nothing had ever compared to them—except now. Now, it had been made evident through the data laid before them that for the first time in her whole life, Olivia’s genetic makeup was stunningly similar to something else

The Tesseract.

It had been when Barton had newly recruited her that he’d approached her with the idea of a more comprehensive study of what enabled her to do what she did. She’d agreed to it, eager of any idea that would help her understand where she had received the abilities she had. The medical team, complete with some of the most-accomplished gene specialists in the country—hell, maybe the world—had assured her of giving her the answers she wanted. And they’d run the tests, first starting with a simple mouth swab. But, when they’d been inconclusive, they had gone further. They had drawn blood, taken a sample of her skin tissue; they even extracted a bone marrow sample, which had evidentially been an unpleasant experience. But, Olivia gave her consent to any and all tests or samples they wanted to take. She hadn’t wavered in her determination to receive answers.

But when all the tests had been run, and every sample had been analyzed and studied and pondered over, the results had been given, and they were far from satisfactory. Clint had never forgotten the awe-struck expression on the medical teams' faces as they’d detailed what could be explained of Olivia’s genetics. Because beyond the parts of her DNA that were able to be understood, the rest was pure madness.

 _It’s an anomaly, a genetic…wonder._ _A medical mystery if there ever was one._

After that, the subject wasn’t approached openly again for a long while. Olivia had battled frustration and anger against her results, made evident in the shift in her training, the relentlessness of her studies. But through his persistence, he was able to force her through that damaging self-destructiveness. Now, she had grown into a capable, self-sufficient woman and agent, and no one would deny it.

And she had accepted that she would never get answers to what made her who she was. But, Clint could see that she held out a small flame of hope for it nonetheless, despite her efforts to conceal it.

He, on the other hand, had truly accepted it. It didn’t matter, in the long run. She was healthy, strong, and could handle herself. What gave her the abilities she had was inconsequential.

But now…Clint was seeing this, and he didn’t have a damn idea what to make of it. And if Fury’s tension and silence was testament to anything, he didn’t either.

“Tell me that what I’m looking at isn’t this.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Barton.”

Fury’s honesty was not comforting.

“Coulson told us that she’d ‘felt it and reached for it’ and that’s what caused the spike a few days ago. But, that connection doesn’t explain why the two’s energy outputs are alike.”

“Their elemental foundations are nearly identical.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Clint asked, his tone sharp with worry. He fought to not run his hand through his hair, a nervous tick.

“If I knew that, I would’ve told you. If all of the brains studying this thing can’t figure it out, then how could I?” Fury says, his deep voice biting. Clint sighs, and gives into his nervousness, running a rough hand through his already messed hair.

“What all does Olivia know?”

“She knows about the project and has a direct feed for any progresses or spikes. But, she doesn’t know about her and the Tesseract’s similarities.”

“Why?”

“What purpose would it serve? She wouldn’t be able to understand it any better than the rest of us. Besides, I want to limit her involvement with this thing unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Why?” Clint repeats, beginning to feel like a broken record.

“Because she’s now joined the Initiative as a part of the team. And because, the last time she made contact with that thing, she not only injured herself, but nearly caused it to blow up the room.”

“She finally joined. And Coulson was the one to approach her with it?”

At Fury’s nod, Clint let out a breath. “That must’ve pissed her off, having him there. I’m surprised she even let him get in a ten-foot radius of her.

“She’s too practical to have turned him away. And there was never a doubt that she would join.”

Clint can’t deny that. She would never turn down the opportunity to help, to be of service, to give. She’s generous, maybe too generous, for her own well-being. She’s good, so good, and it’s evident even despite the stubbornness, the attitude, the many faults that made her who she was. She was a _good_ person, one he cared about deeply, and maybe that’s why learning that she’d joined made him swell with equal amounts fear and pride. 

She was good, yes, selfless. But, she was reckless, pushing the edge of giving too much of herself. And she was young, so young. If something were to happen, if a sacrifice would be needed for some bedamned reason…

He stops himself from finishing the thought, but his stomach still twists painfully.

Barton turns to look at the screen again, roaming over the endless information. Complex chemistry and biological terms and equations sweep across the screen, and he wishes that he could understand it. That he had all the answers. But, wishes never stand the force of reality.

And the reality was that he, and no one else, truly understood what Olivia was. And what her connection to the Tesseract meant. And what would happen if the two were to connect again.

“How do you want me to proceed, sir?”

“Don’t mention any word of what you’ve seen in this room to anyone else, including her. There will be a time when she will be needed here, but that time hasn’t come yet. Continue your regular tasks as usual. As far as you’re concerned, nothing has changed.”

And that was exactly how Clint acted when he left the room and went back to completing the details of his job. Nothing at all had changed. Nothing at all.

But, if Clint had known just how far from the truth that was, then he would have told Olivia. Because in just a few days, her life would change forever, and nothing could’ve prepared her for it.

There would be nothing to stop the destruction to follow.

* * *

Nearly a universe away, Loki prepares for his journey ahead. The thought of his destination causes him to pause.

A grin twists up his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! Does the "enemies to lovers" tag make a bit more sense now, lol? 
> 
> Feedback would make my day! 
> 
> Also, whose excited for Loki? 
> 
> Next chapter: The Avengers


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